A Night in the Lonesome October (14 page)

    
"Good," I said, "in one way."

    
"What's the other way?"

    
"Nightwind knows about it.
 
He came by while you were inside, and we talked.
 
The white raven, by the way, is named Tekela."

    
"Oh, he knows her?"

    
". . . And you were right about the vicar.
 
It was a ceremonial killing, dues for getting into the Game late."

    
"Sounds as if you had a long talk."

    
"We did.
 
I'd better fill you in."

    
"Any special reason we're heading this way?"

    
"Yes.
 
That's part of it."

    
We continued to the south and a bit to the west as I told her the things I'd learned.
 
The air grew moist as we went and the sky dark as a blot in that particular area about which heaven's artillery flickered and boomed.

    
"So you want to peer in the Good Doctor's windows again?"

    
"In a word, yes."

    
"Cats aren't real fond of getting wet," she observed, after the soft weather got harder.

    
"Dogs aren't crazy about it either," I said.
 
Then, "Whoever wins, it'll still rain."

    
She made the closest sound I'd ever heard her manage to a laugh, a little rhythmic, musical thing.

    
"That's true," she said a little later, "I'm sure.
 
How many times in a century does the Full Moon rise on Halloween, three, four?"

    
"It varies," I responded.
 
"It's more interesting to ask, on how many of those occasions do the appropriate people assemble to try for an opening or hold for a closing?"

    
"I couldn't guess.
 
This is your first, of course."

    
"No," I said, and I did not elaborate, knowing what I had just given away.

    
We walked on through the drizzle toward the place of brightnesses, keeping to the road as there were fewer wet things to brush up against there.

    
As we drew nearer, I saw that the front door of the farmhouse stood open, light spilling out through its rectangle.
 
And someone was moving upon the roadway, headed toward us.
 
Another discharge from the storm clouds gave the building a thorny corona of light, and outlined briefly in its glare I saw that a very big man was moving toward us at an ungainly but extremely rapid pace.
 
He was dressed in ill-fitting garments, and my single glimpse of his face showed it as somehow misshapen, lopsided.
 
He halted before us, swaying, turning his head from side to side.
 
Fascinated, I stared.
 
The rain had washed all scents from the air, until we achieved this proximity.
 
Now, though, I could smell him and he grew even stranger to me, for it was the sick, sweet scent of death that informed his person, reached outward from it.
 
His movements were not aggressive, and he regarded us with something akin to a child's simple curiosity.

    
A tall figure suddenly appeared at the farmhouse door, looking outward into the night, laboratory coat flapping in the wind.

    
The giant figure before me leaned forward, staring into my face.
 
Slowly, unthreateningly, he extended his right hand toward me and touched me on the head.

    
"Good…dog," he said in a harsh, cracked voice, "good…dog," as he patted me.

    
Then he turned his attention to Graymalk, and moving with a speed that belied his earlier gesture, he snatched her up from the ground and held her to his breast.

    
"Kit-ty," he said then.
 
"Pret-ty kit-ty."

    
Clumsily, he moved to stroke her with his other hand, rain streaming down his face now, dripping from his garments.

    
"Pret-ty...”

    
"Snuff!" Graymalk wailed.
 
"He's hurting me!
 
Too tight!
 
His grip's too tight!"

    
I began barking immediately, hoping to distract him into relaxing his grip.

    
"Hello!" came a call from the man at the farmhouse.
 
"Come back!
 
You must come back now!"

    
I kept barking, and the man dashed outside, rushing in our direction.

    
"He's let up a little, but I still can't get free!" Graymalk told me.

    
Apparently confused, the huge man turned to the approaching figure, and back again.
 
It appeared to be the Good Doctor headed our way.
 
I kept up the barking, since it seemed to have worked.

    
When the Good Doctor came up beside the giant he placed a hand upon his arm.

    
"Raining cats and dogs, I see," he said.

    
I stopped barking as the giant turned his head and stared at him, doubtless at a loss for words in the face of such a sallying of wit.

    
"The doggy wants you to put the kitty down," he told him.
 
"The kitty wants to get down, too.
 
Put her down and come back with me now.
 
It's a bad night to be outside, with all this rain."

    
"Bad…night," the big man responded.

    
"Yes.
 
So put the kitty down and come with me."

    
"Bad…rain," rejoined the other.

    
"Indeed.
 
Cat.
 
Down.
 
Now.
 
Come.
 
Now.
 
With me."

    
"Cat…kitty…down," said the big fellow, and he leaned forward and deposited Graymalk gently on the road.
 
His eyes met mine as he rose, and he added, "Good…dog."

    
"I'm sure," said the Good Doctor, taking hold of his arm with both hands now and turning him back toward the farmhouse.

    
"Let's get out of here," Graymalk said, and we did.

    
The things are getting restless, but their restraints still serve.
 
I stopped by Larry's place this morning, to suggest he answer to the name "Lucky," if so addressed by any woodsy denizen in his wanderings.
 
This necessitated my giving him a little background concerning speculations as to his status.
 
He's agreed to be even more circumspect in his comings and goings.
 
I filled him in on all the rest, too, since I considered us partners.
 
Everything, that is, save for Linda Enderby's true identity.
 
I was loath to destroy his illusions concerning the genial old lady whose company had given him such pleasure.
 
Whatever had been learned there had been learned, and I doubted it could have been much in such a bizarre case as his, with him so guarded concerning it, and letting him live a little longer with his fond memory of the visit did not seem much in the way of risk taking.
 
I resolved to wait a few days before revealing the deception.

    
"Hear anything more about the police and their search?" I asked.

    
"They're still investigating, but they seem to have questioned everyone and now they've started searching fields along the way.
 
I think the latest theory is that the officer might have been thrown from his horse, which did make it back to their stables."

    
"I guess he didn't wash up.
 
Maybe he made it out to sea."

    
"Possibly.
 
I'm sure they'd be looking at any washups pretty closely."

    
"I wonder what this beating of the bushes might mean to the Count, if they go very far afield?"

    
"I'll bet if you check today you'll find he's moved."

    
"So you think he has another place, too?"

    
"Of course.
 
That's his style.
 
And he has the right idea.
 
Everyone should have a place to run to.
 
You can never be too careful."

    
"Do you?"

    
He smiled.

    
"I hope you do, too," he said.

    
When I smile no one can tell.

    
I went looking for Graymalk then, to see whether I could persuade her to climb down into the crypt for me again.
 
But she wasn't anywhere about.
 
Finally, I gave up and wandered over to Rastov's place.

    
Quicklime wasn't readily available either, and I began rearing up and peering in windows.
 
I spotted Rastov himself, slouched in a chair, vodka bottle in one hand, what might be his icon clutched to his breast with the other.
 
Something stirred on the windowsill and I realized it to be my erstwhile partner.
 
Quicklime raised his head, stared at me, then gestured with his head toward the adjacent room.
 
At that, he slid from the sill and was gone.

    
I made my way back to the near window of that room, which was opened slightly.
 
Moments later, he emerged.

    
"Hi, Quick," I said.
 
"How's it going?"

    
"Sometimes I wish I were back in the fields again," he replied.
 
"I'd be getting ready for a long winter's sleep."

    
"Bad night?"

    
"I got out just in time.
 
He's at it again.
 
Drinking and singing sad songs.
 
He could get us into a lot of trouble when he's had too much.
 
He'd better be sober for the big night."

    
"I should hope so."

    
We went off toward the rear of the place.

    
"Busy?" he asked me.

    
"Believe it."

    
"Listen, Snuff, the boss doesn't tell me everything, and Nightwind said, just a day or two back, that there are divinatory ways for discovering whether someone's an opener or a closer.
 
Is that true?"

    
"He's right," I said.
 
"But they're unreliable before the death of the moon.
 
You really have to have some juice to make them work."

    
"How soon after?"

    
"Several days."

    
"So people could be finding out everyone's status pretty soon?"

    
"Yes, they will.
 
They always do.
 
That's why it's important to finish any mutual business before then.
 
Once the lines are drawn, your former partners may be your new enemies."

    
"I don't like the idea of having you or Nightwind for an enemy."

    
"It doesn't follow that we have to kill each other before the big event.
 
In fact, I've always looked on such undertakings as a sign of weakness."

    
"But there's always _some_ killing."

    
"So I've heard.
 
Seems a waste of energy, though, when such things will be taken care of at the end, anyhow."

    
". . . And half of us will die in the backlash from the other half's winning."

    
"It's seldom a fifty-fifty split of openers and closers.
 
You never know what the disposition will be, or who will finally show up.
 
I heard there was once an attempt where everyone withdrew on the last day.
 
Nobody showed.
 
Which was wrong, too.
 
Think of it.
 
Any one of them with guts enough could have had it his own way."

    
"How soon till the word gets out, Snuff?"

    
"Pretty soon.
 
I suppose someone could be working on it right now."

    
"Do _you_ know?"

    
"No.
 
I'll know soon enough.
 
I don't like knowing till I have to."