The Wounded Land by Stephen R. Donaldson Page B

“Where?”
    â€œHe said you’d know where.” Insistently the woman went on, “I’m his secretary. I don’t work on Saturdays, but I’m always glad to help him. He’s a fine man—a fine doctor. His wife had polio. He really should be on rounds.”
    Linden shut her eyes. If she could have summoned any strength, she would have cried out, Why are you doing this to me? But she felt drained by bad dreams and doubt. Muttering, “Thank you,” she closed the door.
    For a moment, she did not move; she leaned against the door as if to hold it shut, wanting to scream. But Dr. Berenford would not have gone to such trouble to send for her if the situation were not urgent. She had to go.
    As she dressed in the clothes she had worn the previous day and ran a comb through her hair, she realized that she made a choice. Sometime during the night, she had given her allegiance to Covenant. She did not understand what was wrong with Joan, or what he thought he could do about it; but she was attracted to him. The same intransigence which had so infuriated her had also touched her deeply; she was vulnerable to the strange appeal of his anger, his extremity, his paradoxically savage and compassionate determination to stand loyal to his ex-wife.
    She drank a quick glass of orange juice to clear her head, then went down to her car.
    The day was already unnaturally hot; the sunlight hurt her eyes. She felt oddly giddy and detached, as if she were experiencing a hallucination, as she entered the dirt roadway and approached Covenant’s house. At first, she was not sure of her vision when she descried the dark stain on the wall.
    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.”
    â€œGone?” For an instant, her control slipped.
Gone?
She could hardly breathe past the thudding of her heart. “Is anybody looking for her?”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œAll right.” Linden mustered her training, gripped it in both hands. “Tell me what happened.”
    He made a