As I approached the heart of the Canyon I slowed down. Just before the turn which brought me to the crossroads beneath the hillside, I pulled over to the shoulder and stopped the motor. I climbed out and walked cautiously around the bend. A car was parked up against the trees—a strange car. I inspected it, noted the familiar AMA seal. Dr. Sylvestro’s heap, all right. That meant he was still up there.
I returned to my car and started the motor. A U-turn was dangerous here, but it was more dangerous to leave the car standing where it could be seen. If Sylvestro recognized it, or if the Professor and Jake arrived, it meant, as they say in the drapery business, curtains.
So I drove back slowly down the road until I hit another side path in the Canyon. I pushed the car up the dirt roadbed until I found a spot under some trees, out of sight. I parked here and walked back on foot. I kept looking over my shoulder, in case somebody came along. And I kept looking ahead, anticipating Doc Sylvestro.
My neck got sore in a hurry. It was hot, but sunset wasn’t far off. I came abreast of the crossing again, glanced up at the hillside house far above me, and then found a clump of bushes to screen me. Then I sat down, lit a cigarette, and let the sand fleas have dinner. The cigarette smoke didn’t rise above the bushes, nor did I. I sprawled out and watched the sunset.
Pretty soon it was twilight on the trail, and the ranch-hands were gathered around the fire swapping yarns, the rich and poor alike lolled at their ease before the festive board, and I still sat in the prickly weeds, turning my flea-bitten face to the hilltop. I leaned back and closed my eyes. I began to doze...
Muffled sound from far away: door slam, crunching, footsteps. Dr. Sylvestro descended interminable stairs. I caught glimpses of him through the trees. He minced down, carrying the inevitable black bag. He stopped at the bottom, mopped his forehead and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it, and a little red eye moved through the dusk towards his car.
The car started, rolled down the road, out of sight. I waited until the sound of the motor died away in the dim distance, and then I got up. I said goodbye to the fleas and crossed over to the wooden stairway.
I climbed. There was no handrail, and the Canyon depths loomed below. A crowd of bats, courtesy Universal Pictures, flew out of an old vampire movie and chittered at me. The sky darkened. I sweated. Up and up and up. I looked down at the gray ribbon of the road. No cars coming. I went on. Then I stood on a level, stone-set patio, before the porch. The windlass for the little cable car occupied part of the area. I occupied what was left. The house before me was dark. This time I knew what to do. I went around to the porch and looked for the place where I’d slashed the screen. It accommodated me promptly. I entered through the porch and walked into the parlor.
The house was more than dark—it was empty. There were no signs of a struggle, nothing to indicate what Dr. Sylvestro might have been doing. Perhaps I’d been mistaken. Perhaps Miss Bauer had left. She might be at Caldwell’s place right now. Best thing to do was call and find out, at once.
I looked around for the phone and couldn’t find it. I walked through the hall and peeked into the bedroom. Nothing there. The bed was made, no signs of packing or confusion. I was relieved. I walked on, into the kitchen.
Even before I entered, I could smell it: the strangely familiar odor, the instinctively recognized reek. An attempt had been made to mop up. But there were stains on the table, on the floor all around it. I thought of an operating room—Dr. Sylvestro and his black bag! But then, where—?
Humming. Humming from the corner. Something huge and white and gleaming, something that hummed and purred as it crouched next to the refrigerator. I walked over to the deep-freeze, tugged the handle, raised the lid of the freezer chest.
I saw the packages wrapped in heavy preserving paper—six of them. I lifted out the top one, the round one. I unwrapped Miss Bauer’s head.
Eighteen
There was nothing else for me to do, then. I closed the freezer and left the kitchen, left the humming and the odor and the stains. I found the phone in the dining room to my left.
I clicked the receiver, sharply. I said, “Give me the police department, please.”
An answering voice came. “What are you doing here?”
It was Rogers who spoke.
Here?
I dropped the mouthpiece. Rogers wasn’t here. How did he get on the phone? Then I realized. The phone was connected with the vaults under the fox pen!
I knew it now. I knew there wouldn’t be time to make a call, because Rogers was climbing out of the cistern. I heard a clang as I ran toward the porch door. I stood on the patio, at the head of the stairs. I gazed down into darkness. I’d have to take those stairs in the dark now, and I’d have to move fast.
Feet thudded behind me. The porch door banged. Then I saw the flash, heard the sound of the shot. It went sprang! And it was close, too close. I ran forward. The windlass loomed. I could use the cable car.
There was another shot, another flash and spang! I jumped into the car and reached over to trip the windlass. A knife slashed at my wrist. It was too dark, too close for Rogers to use a gun. He had a knife now, and he was cutting the cable.
I reached out, groped, grabbed. He kicked at my face. I found his leg in the darkness, held on. He toppled but I was a second too late. Something snapped, and suddenly the car was plunging down through a gauntlet of branches that stabbed my face. Rogers squirmed in my arms. We were crashing together, clattering, ripping, roaring in a flimsy wooden car that was like an orange crate.
He still had his knife, and the blade grazed my throat. I twisted his arm. He grunted and bit into my shoulder. I pushed him forward in the swaying car. It was black, no moon shone, and the trees clawed me as we rumbled down. He stood up, trying to kick. The car tipped forward.
I threw myself against him. He screamed and went down. Down and over the side of the car. It went over him. And then it began to turn.
I hurtled down through the treetops with his scream in my ears. I fell and rolled, fell and rolled, and the car crashed past me, and then I hit bottom and lay there, covered with a blanket of black.
A long time later, I opened my eyes. That hurt. But it didn’t particularly matter, because everything hurt. My head and neck ached. For a moment I lay still and tried to keep my eyes shut while I sorted and catalogued the varieties of pain.
I raised up, bracing myself on my hands. I was on the ground, but needles were lacerating my hands. Pine needles. Could I stand up? I could try. There was a tree trunk far away: light-years, pain-years away. I hunched forward and my fingers clawed bark, braced the broad surface. I got to my knees, embracing the tree trunk. It must have looked silly, and it hurt like hell.
I stood up, raising myself by degrees. I could hear something snap. It might be twigs; it might be my vertebrae. But I had to stand up, lift up that load of pain. Weary totin’ dat heavy load. And where was the lonesome road? I found it. I walked very slowly, very softly. I bumped into bushes, and it hurt. I bumped into trees, and it hurt. But I kept right on walking, through the thick underbrush.
Deep darkness and crickets all about me. I was walking along the dry bed of a little gully. It was dusty. I smelled the dust when I stumbled and fell. I coughed and got up and walked again. I wiped dust from my face and something sticky came away in my hand. I kept moving. I had to find the car on the side road. Once I found it, I had to drive it. And that would only be the beginning of this night’s work.