“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.
Chapter 12
I
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?”