The presence of Napoleon, squatting like a leopard by the door, should have been reassuring, for he was obviously glad to see them. But as she bent to fondle the scarred head that was banging against her ankles, Linda was conscious of an increase in her dark forebodings.
“He must have eaten up all the food,” Michael said, watching Napoleon’s activities cynically.
“I’ll get him something. You sit down.”
“There’s some of the canned cat tuna on one of the shelves,” Michael said as she went into the kitchen.
The sight of the littered sink and empty refrigerator made Linda wrinkle her nose in disgust.
“It’s a wonder you don’t both have rickets and scurvy,” she said, searching the drawers for a can opener. “There isn’t a drop of milk. I should think you could at least feed that poor cat milk.”
“He hates milk,” Michael said. “Whiskey, gin, beer, Coke-he loves Coke, but he’ll drink anything. Anything but milk.”
Linda found the can opener in the sink, and went to call Napoleon. The cat was sitting on Michael’s stomach, glowering.
“He knows I’ve been in a fight,” Michael said. “And he has a pretty good idea as to who lost.”
The cat sneezed and walked back down the length of Michael’s semirecumbent form, planting his feet heavily. He went into the kitchen, contempt radiating from every hair.
“I’ve lost face,” Michael said.
Linda was unable to be amused. Michael didn’t seem to feel anything wrong. What was the matter with her, that she couldn’t give way to the fatigue that dragged at every muscle? Unable to relax, she began to walk up and down the room. Her eyes felt hot and her skin had begun to prickle. Not for the first time, she speculated about drugs. Gordon had every opportunity to administer anything he chose. Coffee, wine, even the aspirin in her bathroom…What a nice, neat, satisfying solution that would be. It explained so much… But not, unfortunately, quite enough. She turned.
“Where are those letters you mentioned?”
“What?” Michael started; he had fallen into a doze, slumped in the big chair. Linda’s heart-or whatever internal organ it is that behaves so peculiarly in moments of emotion-twisted as she watched him blink and brush at his ruffled hair. “They’re in that envelope I brought up from the car,” he said, yawning. “Why don’t we wait till morning? We can think better after we get some sleep.”
“I’m too keyed up to sleep yet,” she said. “What about a nice soothing cup of tea?”
“Okay.”
Linda went into the kitchen. She couldn’t tell him of her feelings; he was too tired to cope with anything else tonight. But her panic was real, and it was steadily growing. She had to see the letters now, without delay, as a hunted man, feeling the approach of the hunters, might desperately try to fashion the smallest scrap of wood or metal into a weapon.
The letters were too small a scrap. They told her nothing she didn’t already know. But the warm drink and the forced concentration helped her nerves. Lethargy replaced her earlier anxiety. Even the sudden movement of the cat did not startle her; but Michael started and swore as the long, lean body streaked for the kitchen.
“That’s funny,” he said.
“What?”
“There goes a plate… Oh, nothing. But he usually doesn’t move that fast unless he hears someone coming.”
He was sitting upright, frowning. Funny, Linda thought. Now he’s getting nervy, and I’m falling asleep. She put the last letter down.
“Your father didn’t like Gordon,” she said.
“No. I wonder why.”
“Antipathy, he says.”
“That’s just a word people use to explain reasoning they aren’t consciously aware of. What I don’t understand is that letter about the Hellfire Club.”
“Oh, that was Gordon,” she said vaguely. She yawned.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been dabbling with demonology for years. Good God,” she said, roused by anger, “you still think I invented all this, don’t you? Where do you think I got my ideas? Why did you think Gordon and Andrea were at swords’ points? Why do you think she hated him?”
“I never imagined…” Michael looked dazed. “He’s such a fastidious person…”
“You’re thinking of Satanism in terms of Aleister Crowley, and the Great Beast, and sexual orgies. That’s only a perversion added by some psychotics. It was never like that with Gordon. If anything, he’s too puritanical, too cold. It’s power he wants, power and control. Isn’t that the ultimate control-over the minds and the will of others? He tried teaching and he tried politics, but they weren’t enough. Through them he could partially dominate certain types, but there were always a few who were immune, and they were the ones he wanted most to dominate.”
Another wide yawn interrupted her. It was a pity, she thought sleepily, that she should be so tired. This was an important point, something Michael hadn’t realized, something he had to know.
“The clue to Gordon Randolph,” Michael muttered. “Is this what I’ve been groping for? Hey-you’re going to fall apart, you’re yawning so. We’ll talk more in the morning. Bed for you.”
Linda let him lead her toward the bedroom, knowing that she ought to be tending to him, but too sleepy to care, too sleepy to pay attention to his explanations and his arrangements. He said something about sleeping on the couch. Linda looked up at him, blinking; her eyelids were so heavy.
“All right,” she said obediently.
She might have been able to prevent it if she had seen it coming; but she was too sleepy, and he was too strong. His arms went around her; even the arm that was bandaged from wrist to elbow held her close. His mouth was warm and hard and insistent on hers. For a few sleep-dazed moments she was lax in his embrace, not responding, but not resisting. Then a frenzy of revulsion filled her, and she struggled.
He let her go at once.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to do that. But you looked so…”
He was pale; whether with pain or anger, she could not tell. Linda swayed, gasping for breath; and the words that came out of her mouth were not the words she had meant to say.
“Michael. Lock me in!”
His eyes widened, and then narrowed to slits as the meaning of her words struck him.
“No,” he said violently.
“Please.”
“No.” His voice was gentler but inexorable. “I won’t, even if I could. Hell, I don’t know where the key is, if there is a key. There is no need for me to lock you in. Now go to sleep. Sleep well.”
With a whimper she turned away, stumbling, and threw herself down on the bed. The movement took the last of her strength; a great weight seemed to be pressing down on her, on mind as well as body. But her mind fought off the pressure for several seconds after her body had succumbed; she knew what was coming. And knew also that those few seconds of awareness were part of Gordon’s plan-the realization of danger coupled with the inability to avoid it is the highest refinement of cruelty. Then, finally, the weight closed in, and her last spark of will flickered out.
III
Michael watched until her breathing slowed and she lay quiet. His hand went to the light switch, and then withdrew. If she woke, in the dark…
Was it only an irrational symbol, this concept of darkness versus light? Darkness concealed; but why need the objects it hid be objects of fear? They might be friendly things, things of beauty. Perhaps they only feared the dark who had seen some frightful thing come at them out of the veils of darkness. From the dark, the dark on the other side…
Turning away from the door, Michael wished fervently that he had never met Kwame nor heard that enigmatically threatening phrase. What did it really mean? It meant something to Kwame, something he felt so strongly that he could transfer the impression to other people. Michael remembered the horrifying vision he had had when Kwame first spoke the words. That had to have been some kind of ESP; he couldn’t have thought of it by himself.