He came at last to a house, broad and sprawling, built at the very edge of the lake. Smooth lawns surrounded it, darkness enclosed it.
The madman moved around the house, hesitating to enter. No real thoughts were moving in his mind now, only impressions. The impression of danger. The impression that the guard had tried to keep him from coming here, so there must be something of value here for him. But strongest of all, the impression of danger.
Danger emanated from the house. It was so broad, so squat. A wide garage stood near it, and then a boathouse built out over the lake. All the structures emanated waves of danger. The madman roamed back and forth, back and forth, all around the house. If he’d met anyone at all on the grounds, he would have killed again, but instinctively he kept outside the house.
The feeling of danger, the meaninglessness of the prowling, the inaction now after the violent action of before, all combined to weaken the creature that was now in control of the madman, to weaken him and make him uneasy. Slowly, reluctantly, he relinquished control, but not as completely as before. He wouldn’t be tucked so far away any more, now that he too had had a taste of freedom.
Self-awareness returned to the madman slowly, and vaguely. He was befuddled, unable to think clearly. His memory of the last half-hour was almost nonexistent, but he did know that he was covered with blood. Only this one fact was really clear in his mind.
He felt lost, and small, and alone. He stood on the shore, the lake stretching black and flat out ahead of him, the lawns sloping gently upward behind him, the sprawling house and its outbuildings dark humps to his left. He was tiny, he was too small to measure. Naked and exposed here, with the black unbroken flatness of lake and lawn all around him, he felt like an insect, so infinitesimal and fragile that he could break his own bones apart by a careless quick intake of breath. He could turn now and run, running wildly, stretching his stubby legs out ahead, flailing his little arms, and run in a dead straight line across the rolling surface of the earth until he died, and the little distance he would cover would be too small to be recorded by the finest and most delicate measuring instruments.
He looked up. Above him, there was nothing. And nothing, and nothing, receding away like a hopeless shout, and dying out in upper emptiness. And far beyond that, so many millions of times his own scrubby height that the number could not be written, were the cold stars, little white lights of pain at the very top of the sky.
He sank to the ground. He was at the very edge, between lawn and lake, where the ground was wet and cold. His fingers scratched meaninglessly at the ground. Tears dribbled down his face, streaking the ribbons of blood on his cheeks. The bleakest of despair washed over him, like fog. His thoughts were vague and troubled, uneasy with black and red movements, half-caught images, uneasy sensations, unclear suggestions. His head rolled back and forth, and tears stained with blood trickled down onto the ground. Regrets and longings filled his troubled brain.
He could no longer believe in his own cleverness and strength and power. He could no longer believe in the inevitability of his success, the permanence of his freedom.
Out of the confusion and the despair there gradually grew a new kind of strength. He would continue, he would live on, but not because he was any longer sure of his eventual triumph. He would live on because that was his role, because this was the part he had to play. Even if defeat seemed certain, he would keep on until the end. Because there was nothing else for him to do.
He would fight no less strongly now. His commitment was as complete as ever. The only change would be that something had been lost within him. Never again would he feel the exultation that had lifted him earlier tonight. Never again would he caper on a night-black road.
He came up again to his feet, tottering, having trouble ordering his body and maintaining his balance. His mind was clearing somewhat, and he was becoming capable of thinking about the immediate future.
There were still things to be done. Sondgard/Chax still loomed ahead of him, but that was far away, tomorrow or later. The immediate problem was to get through the night.
He had to cleanse himself. And he had to return to the house. And he had to cover any tracks he might unwittingly have left behind him, which could lead Sondgard/Chax to his door.
He stepped forward. Fully clothed, he stepped into the lake, wading out till the water was chest-high. Then he bent forward, and dipped his head down into the cold water. He scrubbed his face and hands, and rubbed his hands over his clothing, trying to wash all the blood away. At last, dripping, he came out of the lake again.
His clothes hung heavy to him. His shoes were soggy weights. But his face was cool, his mind clear. He started home.
It was harder to climb the gate this time, in the wet and heavy clothes, but he made it, falling heavily on the other side, hurting his shoulder. He struggled to his feet and walked away along the road, rubbing his shoulder. He walked somberly now, heavily, with none of his earlier enthusiasm.
The house was still in darkness, except for the hall lights, when he got back to it. He took off his shoes outside and tied the wet laces together, and hung the shoes around his neck. Then he went inside, and carefully locked the door behind him.
He was about to go upstairs when he glanced toward the farther end of the hall, where the kitchen was, and suddenly realized he was very hungry. His appetite was usually not keen, but now a gnawing emptiness had hollowed out his belly, and all at once he was so hungry his hands were shaking.
He moved down the hall and stepped into the dark kitchen. He didn’t turn on the large circular fluorescent light in the ceiling, but did switch on the smaller light over the sink. He opened the refrigerator door and found a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread and a jar of raspberry jam. He sat at the kitchen table and made himself a sandwich, and drank the milk.
He ate two sandwiches and drank the entire quart of milk before the gnawing in his belly went away. Then he sat there a while longer, staring at the opposite wall.
This was where Sondgard/Chax had been sitting. He had sat across the way there, answering the questions. The tape recorder with its syzygetic reels had been placed there, to the right.
Bemused, still gazing thoughtfully into the middle distance, he reached out his left hand and picked up the jar of raspberry jam and turned it upside down. The jam oozed out, plopping onto the kitchen table, falling in slow chunks. His right hand groped for the knife he’d been using — he still didn’t look at what he was doing — and he used it now to scrape the rest of the jam out of the jar and onto the table.
Then he got to his feet. At the sink, he washed the empty milk bottle, and the dish on which he’d made the sandwiches, and the jar the jam had come in. He left all three on the drain-board, and then turned back to the table.
He started to spread the jam on the table. At first he used the knife, spreading it as though he were spreading jam on bread, but after a minute he put the knife down and used his fingers. His hands pushed and spread the jam, and when he was finished he stood back and looked at it. His clothes were still soggy and shapeless, his shoes hung around his neck, his hands were smeared with jam.
The table now looked like a great open wound, red and scabrous. He looked at it, but didn’t seem really to focus on it. His eyes were vague and filmy, as though he were still gazing into the middle distance while thinking of something else.
He pushed his hands into the open wound. His fingers made meaningless streaks and snarls on it, like finger-painting. He waved his hands through the mess for a few minutes, and then suddenly turned away and stepped purposefully to the sink. He washed the knife, then washed his hands, then washed the faucets where he had touched them and streaked jam on them.