The Cry of the Owl (26 page)

The doctor was smoking a cigarette, bending sideways to read the titles of a few books that remained on the bookshelf to the left of the fireplace. “Yes, Mother, yes,” Robert said. “A very good doctor. They’re taking good care of me.” He laughed. “Well, I’m sorry, but he gave me a sedative, that’s why I sound funny, but I’m fine, I want you to know I’m fine.”

“But will you join us?” she asked for the third time. “Will—you—come? To the
ranch
?”

Robert frowned, trying to think. “Yes, why not?” he said.

“Will you leave tomorrow? Just as soon as you’re able? Will you be all right tomorrow? Bobbie, are you there?”

“I’m all right now,” Robert said.

“Would you call us again, so we’ll know what plane to meet?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Now go to sleep, Bobbie. I’m going to call you tomorrow morning. About ten. All right?”

“All right. G’night, Mother.” He hung up, then frowned, remembering that his mother had said Phil wanted to talk to him. Well, that wasn’t important. Robert sank back slowly on the pillows. Through his half-open eyes, he saw the doctor turn from the bookcase and come toward him, smiling slightly. Robert supposed he was about to take his leave. “Thank you very much,” Robert said. “If you tell me what the bill is—I can pay you now.”

The doctor shook his head. He was biting his underlip. Robert saw that his eyes were full of tears. Robert frowned, and for an instant wondered if he might be dreaming.

“No, no bill. That’s all right,” said the doctor. “You don’t mind if I stay here, do you? I’d rather stay here than go home. I’ll read something while you sleep. Matter of fact, it’s just as well that a person in your condition has somebody around.”

Robert lifted his head a little from the pillows, still frowning. The doctor was like a different man now, only he looked the same, small and roundish, bald-headed.

The doctor turned sideways to Robert, facing the fireplace. “I’ve just lost my wife. Ten days ago. Julia—she died of pneumonia. A simple thing like that. One would
think
simple, when someone’s otherwise healthy. But her heart—” The doctor turned to him again. “I’m rambling on and you’re practically asleep, I know.”

“No,” Robert said.

“If you aren’t, you ought to be. Well, a doctor’s not supposed to feel much about death, but—”

Robert listened, trying hard to keep alert. “May I ask your name, doctor?”

“Knott,” said the doctor. “Albert Knott. Well—we’re both in trouble, aren’t we? Your trouble—I’ve read about it in the papers. I know you’re suspected of killing Wyncoop. I once lanced a boil for Wyncoop. Isn’t that a coincidence? Boil on his neck. It’s not my business to pass judgment on character.” He stood motionless, a short, dark figure.

To Robert, he seemed to be floating, suspended in the air.

“In a minute, you won’t be hearing what I’m saying, and it doesn’t matter,” said Dr. Knott, not looking at Robert now. “I loved my wife and she died. That’s the story in a nutshell.”

There was a long silence, so long Robert felt in danger of falling asleep, and he did not want to. “I hear you. I’m listening.”

“Try to relax,” said the doctor, like a gentle order.

Robert obeyed.

Now the doctor was walking slowly up and down. The only light came from the red-shaded lamp set on a low table by the armchair. “Yes, I know about Wyncoop’s disappearance,” the doctor said softly. “Whether you killed him, whether you didn’t, I’d be here anyway. It’s strange. I’m not usually on call to the police, but it’s not the first case I’ve been called on by them. The usual doctor is out of town, and I’m one of the doctors on a list in case he can’t make it. Just happened, just happened.” A pause of half a minute, while he paced twice, hands in his pockets. “I heard you say you thought Wyncoop’s
doing the shooting.” The doctor stopped and looked at Robert, as if he were not sure he was still awake.

Robert was too sleepy even to murmur anything.

“That’s logical,” said the doctor, nodding, starting to pace again. “He’s twice as angry, because his girl killed herself. Well, that’s a horrible thing.” But he said it lightly, or his tone was light. “You’re thinking of going somewhere tomorrow?”

Robert made an effort. “Yes, I told her I’d be coming out to see her in Albuquerque.”

“I don’t think you’ll be strong enough to leave tomorrow.”

“I’m not sure the police will allow it, either.” Robert squeezed the bandage on his left arm gently and felt nothing.

“That’s still numb from the local,” said the doctor. “I understand this is the second time the bullets’ve been flying.”

“Yes.”

“Well—I think you ought to leave this place.” The little doctor opened his arms as if it were all quite simple. “They won’t give you a police guard that’s adequate, they won’t put you in jail—”

Robert stopped fighting the drowsiness. It was like dropping off a cliff, falling, but without a fear in the world. The doctor’s voice droned on for a few seconds in comforting tones, and then stopped.

“Well, good morning,” said the doctor, smiling. He was standing near the couch in his shirtsleeves, in a bright square of sunlight. “Have a good sleep?”

Robert glanced around the room. His wristwatch was gone. His left arm throbbed.

“Your watch is on the table there. It’s eight-thirty-five,” said the doctor. “You slept through two telephone calls. I took the liberty of answering them. One was from Vic McBain. New York. Said he’d called after midnight last night and was talked to very rudely by a cop. We had quite a little chat. I told him I was your doctor and was staying with you and you’re all right.”

“Thank you.” Robert blinked, still fuzzy-headed. He saw that the carpet was rolled up at one side of the room, and he vaguely remembered that he had gotten blood on it while he was calling the police last night. Robert started to get up to wash.

“Let me get you some coffee before you move,” said the little doctor, going off to the kitchen. “Just made this a few minutes ago. Among other liberties, I used your razor. I hope you don’t mind. Milk or sugar?”

“Just black,” Robert said.

The doctor came back with the coffee.

Robert tried to remember his name. Knapp? Knott. That was it. “There were two calls, Dr. Knott?”

“Yes. One just a few minutes ago from Jack—Nelson, I think. He said he’d come by this morning. That is, any minute.”

Robert watched the doctor’s round, happy face as he sipped his coffee. He could not understand the doctor’s liveliness, his cheerfulness, his good will. But his face drew Robert’s eyes to it again and again, as the warm sun might.

“Well, I was staying around to see how you felt,” said Dr. Knott, “and also to give you a hand, if you need it. I should say an arm.” He laughed. “I have no appointments till three today, and that—” He shrugged.

Robert was waking up. He remembered his mother was going to call at ten. His arm was not too painful, and he was wondering if he could start the drive to New Mexico. Today was Friday. Tomorrow afternoon the dentist was arriving, and presumably could give a verdict at once on the corpse. Then Robert remembered he had dreamt last night of Brother Death. Hadn’t it been different, somehow? Brother Death’s face had not been smiling and healthy as usual. It had been green. And maybe the hideous corpse had been in the dream, maybe lying on the table Brother Death was sitting at.
The corpse was so real to Robert, had been so much in his mind, that nearly fleshless, colorless, but still human form, he could not tell if he had dreamt of it last night or not.

“You were talking quite a bit in your sleep,” said Dr. Knott, and Robert felt guilt like a physical pain seize his entire body for a second.

“I imagine about death,” Robert said.

“Yes, yes, that was it,” said the doctor as brightly as he said everything. “‘Brother Death?’ you said, like a question. And ‘Hello.’ You didn’t sound afraid. It wasn’t like a nightmare, that is. I don’t think.”

“Yes, I have a recurrent dream,” Robert said, and he told it quickly to the doctor. “But I’m not so fond of death as that might sound.”

“Oh-h.” The doctor paced toward the fireplace.

Robert was suddenly embarrassed, remembering Jenny’s final note, which the doctor must have read in the newspapers. He remembered also that the doctor’s wife had died, ten days ago.

The doctor turned around, his blue eyes twinkling. “Death’s quite a normal thing, as normal as birth. The human race refuses to get used to it. That is, we do in this culture. Can’t say the Egyptians refused to get used to it, for instance.”

“But there is a time to die,” Robert said. “Youth isn’t the time, is it? It’s no wonder young people fear it. I’ve seen old people accept it. That’s different.” Robert looked at the doctor. “I didn’t say anything about Jenny, did I?”

“Jenny? No, I don’t think so. I was dozing in the armchair. Can’t say I heard every word. Jenny’s the girl who killed herself, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Wyncoop’s girl.”

Robert was sitting up now, his feet on the floor.

“Were you going to marry her?”

“No,” Robert said. “It was too bad. She loved me.”

“And—you said no to her?”

“I said—I didn’t know if I could ever love her or not. So—she killed herself Tuesday night. She said to me many times she wasn’t afraid of death. She’d seen her little brother die of meningitis. It threw her—for a while—but she got over it by accepting death, she used to say. That was the word she used, ‘accepting.’ It frightened me, when she used to say it. And then, you see—she did it, for no good reason. I suppose you saw the newspapers. They printed the note she wrote. She said I represented death to her.” Robert looked directly at the doctor, curious as to what the doctor would make of it, not knowing all the facts, not all the little facts, even if he had been following the Wyncoop story in the papers. “She was in love with death, in a way. That’s why she was in love with me.”

The doctor looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then his smile was back. “That’s a matter for a psychiatrist, no doubt. A psychiatrist for the girl, I mean. Yes, I read the story. I remembered it last night. When I was riding here with the police in my car, I remembered the story. I thought, that’s a tough spot for any human being to be in. The purpose of many suicides is to make somebody else feel sorry, feel guilty. Did you break off sharply with her, something like that?”

“No.” Robert frowned. “First of all, there weren’t any promises, it wasn’t really a romance—and yet it was. I didn’t understand the girl, really, because it never crossed my mind she’d kill herself. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough to understand her, maybe I never could have, if I’d tried. It just leaves me with the most
awful regret—and shame for having botched something. A person.” Robert saw the doctor nod briskly, twice, and he was afraid his words hadn’t sunk in, hadn’t been clear. Robert stood up, staggered slightly, but set his cup and saucer down on the coffee table and went into the bathroom in his stocking feet.

He wanted to take a shower, but he was afraid of getting the bandage wet, didn’t want to bother the doctor with putting on a new one, so he washed with a facecloth at the basin and shaved hastily and not very carefully. He felt weak.

“Doctor, can you give me a pill?” he asked as he came out of the bathroom. He walked to a suitcase to get a fresh shirt. Then the scene began to dissolve in gray particles. The doctor was pulling him by his right arm toward the couch again. “To pick me up,” Robert mumbled. “I’m not in pain.”

“I can give you a pill, but what’s the use? You’ve got to take it easy today. Is there someone you can call to stay with you?”

Robert’s ears were ringing so loudly he barely heard the doctor.

“You’re not going anywhere today,” said Dr. Knott.

There was a knock at the door, and the doctor went to answer it.

“You’re Mr. Nelson?” asked the doctor.

“Nielson,” said Jack. “How do you do? How’s the patient?”

Robert was sitting up very straight now on the edge of the couch. “Fine, thank you. Would you like some coffee, Jack?”

Jack looked around the room before he answered, saw the corner of the writing table, and moved toward it and touched it. “Holy smoke!”

“Yes, there were five of them. Five bullets,” said Dr. Knott, going into the kitchen.

Jack’s black eyebrows scowled. “What did the police do this time? Just nothing?”

“No, they were here. They came. So did a lot of neighbors,” Robert said.

“How do you like your coffee, Mr. Nielson?” asked the doctor.

“A spoonful of sugar, thanks,” Jack answered. “Did they see anybody around? What did they do?”

“I don’t know exactly, because I passed out—about ten minutes after I got hit. When I came to, the house was full.” Robert laughed. There seemed nothing else to do but laugh, laugh at Jack’s long, frowning, puzzled face.

Jack accepted the coffee from the doctor. “Thank you. Do you think it’s Greg?”

“Yes,” said Robert. “Sit down, Jack.”

But Jack kept on standing with his coffee cup, in his unpressed flannel trousers and his tweed jacket and his space shoes, glancing at his watch and no doubt thinking that he had to leave in one minute for the plant. “But just what’re the police doing about it?”

“I think you’re being too logical,” Robert said.

Jack wagged his head. “I suppose they won’t do anything until they find out the corpse isn’t Wyncoop. Isn’t that it?”

“I asked Lippenholtz about its condition,” said Dr. Knott. “From his comments,
even
from his comments, it sounds as if that corpse had been in the water longer than a couple of weeks or whatever it is.”

It was thirteen days now, Robert thought, since Wyncoop had presumably been thrown into the Delaware. Jack was looking at him.

“What did you think—about the corpse?”

Robert took a big gulp of the hot coffee the doctor had just poured. “I thought it was a corpse.”

“I’m going to scramble some eggs,” said the doctor, and went off to the kitchen again.

Jack sat down gently on the couch beside Robert. “Does this mean they’re not looking for Wyncoop now? I’m sorry to be so stupid, but I don’t get it.”