Dark on the Other Side (28 page)

“And that’s why he turned to Satanism,” Michael muttered.
“Those conversations we had about good and evil…He doesn’t believe in
God, but he can’t accept the inevitability of death. There’s only one
other dispenser of immortality. ‘Better to reign in Hell than serve in
Heaven.’”

“Especially if you don’t believe in Heaven,” Galen said.
“I hope you’re enjoying your abstract intellectualizing, Michael. You
may drown in it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I took a calculated risk with Randolph. We’ve learned
some interesting and useful things about him, but we’ve also stirred
him up. He left here in a frenzy of rage and fear.”

“You mean—he’ll try something else?”

“Almost immediately, I should say.”

Slowly, the two pairs of eyes turned to focus on Linda.

III

“No,” she said. “No, he wouldn’t dare. He was frightened.
“I’ve never seen him so upset.”

“That’s precisely the danger. A man of his temperament
doesn’t back down under a challenge. He’ll be all the more eager to
strike before, as he thinks, I have time to conjure up all my powers.”

“God damn your arrogant soul,” Michael said softly. “You
deliberately, cold-bloodedly, stirred up that rattlesnake, knowing he
can—”

“It had to be done.” Galen’s seldom-aroused temper showed
in his flushed cheeks. “Oh, hell…I ought to know better. One of the
basic rules of this trade is not to meddle with your friends’
problems…. Tell him, Linda.”

“Michael, he’s right. How long could we go on, with this
hanging over us? Watching each other out of the corners of our eyes,
afraid to sleep…. Twice I’ve tried to kill someone,” she said, feeling
Galen’s silent commendation like a rock at her back. “If I have to go
on dreading that, I’d rather be dead. Gordon is off balance, for the
first time since I’ve known him. We’ve got to keep him on the
defensive.”

“How?” Michael demanded.

“Don’t look at me,” Galen snapped.

“He’s afraid of dying,” Michael said. “Why?”

“Give me five years of analysis and maybe I can tell
you,” Galen said. “What the hell do you think I am, a mind reader?”

Linda wrapped both arms around her body, but their
limited animal warmth did not touch the chill that froze her mind.

“You both know,” she said, shaping the words with
difficulty because her lips were stiff with that inner cold. “You know
what we have to do. Force the issue, keep him off balance. We’ll have
to follow him.”

“Where?” Michael’s voice sounded as stiff and difficult
as hers.

“Back home, of course. Back to the house. Galen’s
absolutely right, he’ll be wild with anger, he won’t be able to wait;
he’ll try something tonight. And all his—his materials are back there.”

“Doesn’t he have a place here in town?” It was Galen who
spoke; Michael was visibly struggling with conflicting emotions.

“A small apartment. He couldn’t keep anything concealed
there.”

“Especially a large black dog,” Galen murmured.

Michael, who had arranged a truce in his internal civil
war, nodded thoughtfully. Having scaled one barrier, Linda faced the
next.

“Doctor. I don’t—I don’t want to say this, but I must, I
can’t keep anything back now. Your theory appeals to me a great deal.
If Gordon is a conscious villain, that makes me innocent, not only of
intent to harm, but of serious mental instability. I’d like—oh, how I’d
like!—to believe it.
But I don’t.”

Galen nodded. She knew that she had told him nothing he
hadn’t suspected, but that he was relieved by her candor. He turned to
the other man.

“How about you, Michael?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Galen got to his feet, rather
heavily; for the first time Linda was conscious of his real age. “We’ll
go after Randolph. I have a few business matters to arrange before we
leave, though. You two had better have some food. I ate on the plane.”

Michael shook his head.

“I have some matters to arrange too. Can I borrow your
car?”

“What for?”

“Never mind, then. I’ll take a taxi.”

“I’m incurably nosy,” Galen said mildly. “Here, take the
keys.”

Michael caught the bright jingle out of the air with one
hand. He looked at Linda with an expression that she was to remember,
often, in the next hours. Then he turned on his heel and was gone.

BY THE TIME MICHAEL RETURNED WITH
THE CAR,
the other two were ready and waiting. The night
had turned clear and chilly; Linda was wrapped in a huge cloak, which
the doctor had mysteriously produced from some vast storehouse of
improbable needs. Galen wore no coat, and his silvery head was bare. He
carried a small flat case, like a briefcase.

As soon as the car stopped, Galen led Linda down the
steps. He opened the back door of the car.

“You drive,” he said to Michael, who was brooding over
the wheel. “We’ll sit in back where—For God’s sake!”

Linda flexed her muscles just in time. From under her
skirts came a wail of protest, and she reached down and lifted a
dangling, muttering bundle of fur.

“Why the hell?” Galen demanded, slamming the car door.

His haste was unnecessary; Napoleon had no intention of
going anywhere. He subsided onto Linda’s lap and looked abused.

“He likes to ride in cars. Besides,” Michael said, in a
voice that ended Galen’s objections, “I have a feeling he might be
useful.”

Fondling the scarred ears, Linda did not look up.

“The canary in the coal mine,” she said. “Michael, I wish
you hadn’t.”

“If he goes berserk, he can wreck the damned car,” Galen
said. “Haven’t you got a carrying case for him?”

“On the floor,” Michael said briefly, and put the car
into gear.

They made good time; the streets were emptying. Staring
out through the closed windows, Linda remembered that other, recent
night drive. Night and darkness, the recurring motifs; there had been
sunshine, once, but she could hardly remember that such a phenomenon
existed. She was tired, so tired; not only in body but in every cell of
brain and nerve. Desire for the endless sleep of death was
comprehensible to her now; perhaps, she thought, it was not grief or
despair that prompted suicide, but only sheer exhaustion.

Her eyes fixed unseeingly on the flashing, multi-colored
lights of the city, Linda knew that that was the solution none of them
would admit. Sick or sane, right or wrong, she was not normal, and
perhaps she never would be. While she lived, Michael would not abandon
her—and neither would Gordon. Even if Gordon were defeated, Michael
would be stuck with her and her inability to love; he was a stubborn
man, he would keep on trying even though it was hopeless. But without
her, Gordon would have no reason to attack Michael. He would be safe;
and she could rest.

Dreamily and without interest, she wondered whether this
black mood was Gordon’s latest move. She didn’t think so. It was far
too pleasant a feeling to have emanated from Gordon’s mind. And so
reasonable…

In the warm, smothering shadow of the idea of death, two
small, dissenting sparks burned. One was Michael—not desire, not even
hope, just the thought of him. The other, absurdly, came from the
scrubby patch of fur in which her fingers were entwined.

Napoleon stirred restlessly under her tightening hands,
but she didn’t let go. A mangy lifeline, that was what he was. A
fighter. Battered and scarred and bloody, he had never thought
pensively of the sweet sleep of death. Swaggering like Cyrano, his tail
a scrawny panache, he took on all comers for the sheer glory of the
fray: “Give me giants!”

The lights had disappeared now, except for isolated
lighted windows. Linda recognized the terrain. Another hour…Even that
thought could not rouse her from the drowsiness which numbed her limbs.
Normal weariness—or the dangerous false sleep of Gordon’s inducing? She
could not tell, nor could she fight it. The solid, silent bulk of the
man beside her gave her failing courage a slight lift, but even that
faded out as the darkness closed in around her.

II

Absorbed in his driving and in the hagridden thoughts
that made every effort doubly difficult, Michael had no warning. He
didn’t realize what was happening until he heard the sudden flurry of
movement from the back seat, and the animal screams, and Galen’s voice,
sharp in command:

“Pull over! Quick!”

Michael jerked the car to a stop, half on and half off
the road. He turned.

On the back seat, Galen’s briefcase gaped open. Galen,
kneeling on a heaving dark cylinder that sprawled half on the seat and
half on the floor, held a hypodermic high, checking it. He must have
had it ready and waiting, in that convenient case….

Before Michael could move, Galen plunged the needle home
in a reckless disregard of antisepsis. Hampered by the muffling folds
of the cloak, Linda went limp as the drug took hold. Then Michael heard
the sound that was coming from the floor of the front seat. Napoleon,
inflated to twice his normal size, had removed himself as far as
possible from what was happening in the back. Once before, Michael had
heard him make a noise like that.

Galen looked up, his face a white oval in the shadows.

“Get that cat,” he said briefly, and reached down to tug
at something on the floor, pinned by Linda’s legs.

Napoleon erupted into hysteria when Michael tried to hand
him into the back; and Galen, cursing in four languages, heaved the
cat’s carrying case into the front seat. Between them they got the
frantic animal into the case and his cries stopped.

Nursing a bleeding hand, Galen spoke again.

“If a patrol car spots us, we’re in trouble. Find a
parking lot or a side street.”

Michael obeyed. His own hands were scratched and painful.
It seemed like hours before he found a place to park—a driveway leading
to a private house, whose dark shape was hidden by trees. The muffled
sounds from the back were driving him frantic. Almost as bad was the
deadly silence from Napoleon’s box.

He switched off lights and engine and made sure the doors
were locked before he turned. Galen had propped Linda up in a corner of
the seat. He was checking her pulse and respiration.

“How is—”

“She’s okay. Physically. I was careful with the dosage.”

“You expected this.”

“For God’s sake—didn’t you? It was as predictable as
sunrise.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not thinking very clearly.”

“You
aren’t?” Galen’s voice was
bitter. “For the last hours everything I’ve done has been in direct
opposition to every medical ethic I’ve ever held. If I’m not caught in
the act, and drummed out of the profession, I’ll probably shoot myself
in sheer self-loathing…. That reminds me. Hand it over.”

“What?”

Galen snapped his fingers impatiently.

“You know what. The ‘business matter’ you had to arrange
before we left. Give it to me, Michael…. Thanks. Do you have a permit
for this?”

“I do. If it matters.”

“Probably not. What’s a permit more or less?”

“Give it back to me, Galen. You’ve risked enough already.”

“No, thank you. If any shooting needs to be done, I’ll do
it.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Michael said, “I
brought it for the dog.”

“And that’s not a bad idea,” Galen admitted. “If the
animal has been trained as an attack dog, it may take a bullet to stop
it. No, Michael, I will keep the gun. I commend your intentions, but I
cannot trust your judgment. Not in this case.”

“Why?” Michael asked suddenly. “Why are you doing this?
Risking your reputation, perhaps your freedom—”

“Arrogance. I think so highly of my own judgment, I even
follow my hunches.”

“You came,” Michael said, “because you knew I’d do this
anyhow, with you or without you. And because I—hit below the belt with
a reference to your personal tragedies. What makes my remark so
inexcusable is that I didn’t give a damn about that aspect of Randolph;
I just wanted to get you mad enough so you’d help us.”

“Forget it,” Galen said brusquely. “I don’t know why I’m
here myself; at the moment I couldn’t analyze an arithmetic problem.
Get on, Michael. Randolph must be home by now; we’re over an hour
behind him.”

“What are we going to do when we get there?”

“I’ll be looking up my horoscope for today while you
drive.”

“What about Linda?”

“She should be waking up by the time we arrive.”

“I meant as a source of information.”

Galen stared at him; Michael saw the faint glimmer of his
eyes in the starlight.

“You have got a few brain cells working after all. It
wasn’t scopalamine I gave her, you know. However, she is in an
extremely suggestible state, if Randolph has been working on her…. Oh,
hell. Drive, will you? I’ll see what I can do.”

After twenty interminable minutes, while Michael drove
like an automaton, Galen leaned forward to report.

“No dice. I’ll try again when she starts to come out of
it.”

The night had sunk into its deadest hours by the time
they arrived. Passing the now familiar landmarks, Michael recognized
the entrance to the unpaved lane that led to Andrea’s house. Darkness
and silence, now, along its length…He wondered where, and how, the old
woman had been buried, and who had come to mourn her. Poor old
witch—another victim of Gordon’s insane urge for human souls, or the
victim of her own—what had Galen called it?—thanatomania. The ability
to induce death by suggestion alone. Mental aberration, or genuine
curse, it didn’t matter. Linda had it too.

The ornate gates that marked the entrance to the Randolph
estate stood open. Michael brought the car to a stop just inside,
switching off the lights. The house was invisible from this spot, and
he doubted that anyone could have heard the car. Unless someone had
been watching for it…

Linda was awake. For several minutes now he had heard the
mumble of voices from the back seat. With the engine no longer running,
he was able to make out the words.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

“Shut up,” Galen said. “All right, Linda, you believe me,
don’t you? Say you do.”

“I believe you.”

Her voice was slurred and drowsy.

“Tell me again.”

“I can’t hurt you,” Linda said obediently. “I can’t hurt
Michael. I don’t want to hurt anyone. No one is going to hurt me….”

“And you aren’t afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” said the soft doll’s voice. The hairs
on Michael’s neck lifted.

“You,” said Galen, turning on him with a cold savagery
that made him flinch, “are going to keep quiet. You will not speak
unless I tell you to, or move unless I tell you to. Understand?”

“Yes, master…. What did you do, hypnotize her?”

“No,” Galen said, in a peculiar voice. “I didn’t. Just
keep your mouth shut and come along. We must get into the house. Linda,
you have a key?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“In my pocket.”

“Get it out.”

The way she moved made Michael feel cold. Her gestures
were competent, without fumbling or hesitation, but they lacked all her
normal grace. He followed the stiff, mechanical figure up the driveway,
and he let Galen take her arm; he had the feeling that it would have
had the solidity and coldness of wood under his fingers.

After some probing—she only answered direct questions,
and those absolutely literally—Galen had got her to produce a back-door
key, and lead them to that entrance.

The servants’ rooms were on the upper floors, so there
was no danger from them; but the kitchen entrance was the length of the
house from their ultimate destination. That couldn’t be helped; Linda
had no key to the other doors, and to climb the twisting stairs around
the tower would give those within warning of their approach.

Michael could see the light in the tower window; it shone
like a sleepless eye on the topmost floor, the window of Briggs’s
study. His sleeping quarters were on the floor below; the secretary was
the only inhabitant of this part of the house, which was out of bounds
to the servants. Briggs did his own cleaning. Linda herself had not
been in the tower since the man moved in.

Galen elicited this information while they stood
shivering in the shadows outside the house. He had already made it
plain that he wanted no conversation after they entered. A slim sliver
of moon had risen, and its rays were enough to show Michael the tension
of Galen’s body and the wax-like calm of Linda’s face. Her face, and
her soft, docile voice, gripped him with a pain as sharp as an actual
wound. How much more could she stand? He had read some of the
literature of witchcraft, and he had seen Gordon’s livid face; he had
an excellent idea of what they might discover in the tower room. The
sacrifice, the shrouded altar, drugs and incense…A sight like that
might break her mind completely.

“It’s not too late to turn back,” he said, turning to
Galen.

“It is too late.”

“We’re guilty of breaking and entering….”

“Don’t be melodramatic. Mrs. Randolph is the mistress of
the house. She has every legal right to go where she chooses, and to
invite her friends to accompany her.”

The shrubbery rustled as they crossed the wide lawn,
silver-washed by moonlight. On such a pale expanse an object would be
clearly visible; but the absence of any seen threat did not calm
Michael’s nerves. He was half hoping that the dog would come. It was
better to know where it was than to imagine it, lurking unseen.

Somewhere, back on a tree near the gate, a petrified cat
squatted on a branch. It had been Galen’s suggestion that they free
Napoleon; he had not needed to give his reasons. Gordon’s malice might
extend to any creature Michael was fond of, and the cat had a better
chance, free, against danger. As Michael extracted the limp,
unprotesting body from the carrying case, he recognized the symptoms.
Only one thing roused Napoleon to his former fury, and that was when
Michael inadvertently brought him near Linda—one of the few people for
whom he had displayed a tolerance verging on affection. Michael had to
lift him up into the lower branches of the tree, and as he turned away
he saw Napoleon squatting there, motionless, looking like the Cheshire
cat, even to the twisted snarl of his teeth. There was a certain
element of the gruesome in
Alice,
come to think of
it….