Eden Burning Page 40

  Down the hill toward the town he came careening, and in the outskirts wheeled with screeching brakes around the corner of the street which he had not entered in so long. He jerked the car to a jolting stop before her house and jumped out.

  The house was dark, but the front door was open. He rushed in, switched on the light and raced through the rooms. Kate’s dogs were lying on the kitchen floor. The poodle was dead and the yellow mongrel had been piteously, brutally wounded. Lying in its blood, it opened its eyes toward Franeis, as if to plead, then turned them toward his bowl and his ball, his dear familiar things, as if to question, and sank back and closed his eyes.

  Now Francis was sure of what he would find. In a frenzy he called her name—“Kate! Kate!”—and bounded up the stairs. In anguish he slammed doors wide. The rooms were empty. Then something made him open a closet in the hall—and there he found her.

  Face down in a pile of shoes and tumbled clothing, she lay naked, tied and gagged. Crying, sick with horror, he picked her up.

  “Oh, my God!” he heard himself say over and over.

  Without moving, she lay on her bed. He looked at her in despair. He was outraged, he was helpless, he didn’t know what to do. At least she was alive…. But no doctor would come out tonight. Could she be dying? Then he bestirred himself. He went downstairs and found brandy. Which would be better, brandy or water? In the bathroom he got water and a wet cloth with which to bathe her forehead. And sitting on the edge of the bed, he covered her lightly, decently, with a sheet, then soothed and soothed with the cloth, thinking, Kate, oh my Kate, what have they done to you?

  She opened her eyes. For a long minute she looked at him. “I knew you would come,” she whispered.

  “How could you know?”

  “I had a premonition that this would be our day. I even called you this evening before everything happened, but they said you weren’t home. They said you had gone to a party.”

  Things joyous and painful moved at the same time in his chest.

  “You called me?”

  “Yes, I was so terribly afraid! I thought I might be needing you … so to hell with all my pride.”

  “Ah, God,” Francis said.

  She whispered. “My back hurts awfully.”

  When, carefully, he turned her over, he saw why. Three raw stripes lay across her back. The flesh had been savagely slit open by a whip. Droplets of dried black blood clung to the edges of the torn flesh.

  He was sick at the sight. “Kate, did they—do anything else to you?”

  “Only what you see.”

  In the bathroom he found a jar of unguent, gone liquid from the heat. Gently, he poured it over the wounds. “I don’t know whether this is the right thing, but it can’t hurt until we can get a doctor.”

  “Take my necklace off, please. It hurts.”

  Still warm from her body’s warmth, the beads slipped through his fingers. They were blue beads, cheap and pretty; in some odd way they made him remember the marvelous emerald she had worn when he first knew her. And everything that had happened since those first days slid away as if it had all been written on flimsy paper, meant to be discarded. What remained was a story inscribed in a permanent volume, beautifully illustrated: Kate on the breezy hill at Eleuthera and in the hotel garden and in this house. The time between then and now had simply vanished tonight. All the sullen, stupid anger, the proud resentments—all, all were gone.

  He took her hand. “Tell me what happened,” he said.

  “Well, Franklin Parrish had just left. You know Franklin? He’d just brought me a copy of a speech for the Trumpet. And then, only a few minutes later, they came. There were three of them. I’d had the doors locked—I always do, anyway—but they broke a kitchen window and got in. The dogs—” Kate started. “The dogs. Where are they?”

  He didn’t know how to tell her, but in his momentary silence she heard the answer. He had to hold her back.

  “No, don’t go downstairs. Please. Kate, they’re dead.”

  She began to cry. “You’re sure they are? Not just hurt?”

  He remembered the mongrel, then, the one she called Beans. “I’ll take care of everything. I don’t want you to see. Kate, my darling, you’re lucky to be alive yourself.”

  “Killed them? And what for? It took months for me to get that poor thing to trust people after I found him, he’d been beaten so—”

  “I know. People beat children, too.” He covered her lightly. “Now lie there. Promise me you won’t move. I’m going downstairs. I won’t be too long.”

  In the kitchen the dog Beans had died, too. Poor animals! Poor Kate, whose tears were cried for them rather than for herself!

  In the pantry he found a flashlight and, fearful of turning on a brighter light, fearful of attracting attention, went out to the yard. God knew what other terrors were still roaming tonight.

  It had been raining for a week up until the day before, and the loam was soft. It took no more than ten minutes to dig a proper grave. Then, bitterly angry, he picked up the two small bodies, still faintly warm, still limp, and laid them gently in the grave. He passed his hand over the soft wool before he took up the shovel again.

  And standing there, while burying two dogs, he felt a wave of fierce emotion, such as one could not sustain too often if one were to keep one’s balance. All he had ever felt for life and living things, brotherhood, kindness, pity, was overwhelmed now with regret and shame for having shut himself away so long from what was truest in himself.

  When he had finished he put the shovel down and stood looking up into the sky. It was utterly black. On the main road at the end of the street an ambulance wailed. A moment later motors roared and tires squealed around the curve. Police cars, he thought. Then silence fell again, a profound silence as if the night itself were cowering in fear. Afraid of the morning, he thought, and so am I.

  He wished he had a gun. The best weapon he could find in the kitchen was a carving knife. From the refrigerator he took a pitcher of cold tea, which he brought up to Kate, while he laid the knife on the floor where she would not see it.

  Weakly, she braced herself against him while she drank the tea. In the faint night-light from the hall he could discern white garments hanging in the closet; he remembered the fragrance of vétiver.

  “That was quite an article you wrote. You should never have done it, Kate. It was a crazy thing to do.”

  “I just got so mad, so fed up.”

  Then he heard himself ask, “Did—did Patrick know about it?”

  “No, he wouldn’t have let me. Nobody knew except me…. I wish you were friends again, Francis.”

  He didn’t answer that, but laid her back on the pillow when she had finished the tea.

  “I wanted so many times to call you,” she whispered. “I used to look in the telephone book just to see your name in print. Weren’t we fools, Francis? A pair of stubborn, arrogant fools, the both of us.”

  “Yes, yes, we were. I more than you.”

  Now she saw the knife on the floor. “Do you think they’re coming back?”

  “I don’t think so. They did what they were sent to do.” And answering her unspoken question, he added, “But I’m not going to leave you.”

  It was still so ominously quiet outside. Fearfully he thought of Marjorie and the child. At least they were not alone. Osborne was there, as well as loyal people in the house. He picked up the telephone.

  Had she got back all right from the Fawcetts’ house? Was everything all right at home? Yes? Good! No, no reason to worry, he was going to stay in town at a hotel and he’d be back in the morning, or as soon as the roads were safe. No, he couldn’t explain now. He’d only wanted to make sure things were quiet at home.

  Turning the covers back he lay down beside Kate, being careful not to touch her tortured back. She fell asleep, but he could not. A Catherine wheel whirled in his head, the wheel on which the saint had been broken, and he knew he was too exhausted to sleep. Once Kate woke and call
ed his name.

  “I’m here,” he said at once. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.” She slept again.

  In the middle of the night he became aware of the ticking clock which, in his agitation, he had not noticed before. It seemed to him that, as the night waned, the clock raced faster, increasing its frantic, nervous pace: tick-tick-tick-tick. And he wished the night would linger, for who knew what sights the morning would bring?

  But gray light came on schedule, sweeping the ceiling. Birds, unaware of any difference in this day, began their bright calls. Kate stirred.

  “Darling, I’m here,” he said again.

  And turning her to him, still careful not to touch her back with even the feather-touch of a finger, he placed her head against his shoulder. For a long time he lay with his cheek against her hair and felt the beating of her heart.

  A rattle of gunfire startled them wide awake.

  “What was that?” Kate cried.

  “Nothing, nothing,” he soothed. “Lie back and sleep.”

  But she sat up, alert. “Guns. It was guns, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He went to the window. There was nothing to see. He turned on the clock radio. No voices came from it.

  “They’ve closed the station,” he said grimly. “I wonder whether the telephone’s out, too.”

  When he lifted the receiver there was a buzz. Suddenly he decided something.

  “Who’re you calling?” Kate whispered.

  “Nicholas,” he replied, still grimly.

  “Don’t!” she cried.

  But Nicholas was already on the line.

  “This is Francis Luther.” His anger was at the place where coldness burns. “I’m here with Kate Tarbox in her house.”

  “Ah, yes, of course.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “No, I can say she’s a very stupid woman and she’s lucky those people didn’t kill her.”

  “They almost did. How long do you think a human being can survive in a closet?”

  “Unfortunate. I’m really sorry. I was shocked.”

  “You’re not talking to a child, Nicholas. ‘You were shocked’! It came as a complete surprise to you!”

  “As a matter of fact, it did. Politics is a strange business, as I’ve always said. One gets involved with some rough types. What happened was, some of these fellows got angry at the lady’s lies about me and decided to do something. That’s the long and the short of the whole business.”

  “Nicholas, I repeat, you’re not talking to a child!”

  “You really think I was responsible? No, I still have loyalty to my friends—it’s one of my weaknesses—even though they don’t always reciprocate. Kate Tarbox is, besides being foolish, Lionel Tarbox’s ex-wife; she’s a friend of my friend Patrick, who has gone somewhat soft in the head, unfortunately. And I see that you—shall we simply say that, in spite of the past, you would care rather much if anything happened to her?” The bland, persistent voice permitted no interruption. “A pity, all these messy affairs! We could all get along so nicely here, live so well in this nice place, if only these mosquitoes like Tarbox would stop buzzing in our ears, undermining confidence—”

  Francis got a few words in. “Confidence in your police and—”

  “The police wouldn’t be necessary if the citizens behaved themselves. And now, if you’ll excuse me, Francis, there’s a busy day coming up.” The telephone clicked.

  Francis hung up and stared at Kate, his look conveying total hopelessness.

  “You remember, I never believed in him?” she asked softly. “There was just something, a feeling I had from the beginning. I never knew where he stood. Oh, I’d rather have someone like Lionel to deal with, any day! There could be no doubt where he stood! Listen, have you never thought why Nicholas was so conveniently away when we had the strike five years ago? He didn’t want to have to declare himself, that’s why, and run the risk of making enemies on either side. He played it both ways and left it to Patrick to take the blame,” she finished, with her old indignation flaring.

  When she turned he saw that the ugly welts on her back had swollen.

  “We’ll have to get a doctor today,” Francis said immediately and was wondering whether to hazard the streets or who might answer his call, when a persistent knocking was heard at the door below. He picked up the knife, feeling at the same time both foolish and wary. With the knife in visible position, he opened the door a crack.

  “Is it you, Francis?” said Patrick Courzon. Rumpled and weary as he was, it was plain that he had been up all night. “I just heard. Is she all right?”

  “Come in. Yes, all right except for her back, where they—whipped her.”

  Patrick was grim. “Things are bad. There’s a fight on now for the radio station and the airfield. But a lot of people have come out of the woodwork to our side. Almost half the men in the police barracks came over to us about four o’clock this morning. We’ve got about fifteen dead so far.” He was breathless. “It’s chaos out there, bloody chaos.”

  For a moment Francis felt choked, unable to express his regrets or his embarrassment.

  “I’ve been here all night,” he said irrelevantly.

  “You’d better get back to Eleuthera while you can. Things are quiet in that section so far. I’ll have men here to watch this house.” Patrick turned to leave.

  Francis put out his hand. “Now’s not the time, I know. I just want to say I’ve had what you might call a kind of revelation since last night.” And, speaking these few words, he felt an inner easing of the spirit, an ebbing of embarrassment and regrets.

  Patrick pressed his hand. “Wish us luck then,” he said, smiled briefly, and was gone.

  It was after noon before Francis arrived at home. Avoiding police stations and villages where confrontations might be occurring, he had taken a long, twisted route over dirt roads, some little more than mountain trails. The car’s radio had kept him informed of events: the station had been retaken. Small battles seemed to be exploding all over the island; barracks were seized; arrests were made; the airfield was sealed off (so I can’t send Marjorie and Megan home, he thought, with sickening fear); a cache of weapons was found in a cottage enclave belonging to the Lunabelle Hotel. At one point Patrick’s voice came over the air, advising tourists to stay in their hotels and assuring them they need have no fear. Well, Francis thought, it must mean something that Patrick has the radio station, mustn’t it?

  Yesterday at this time he would have been on the other side or, rather, on no side at all. And he wondered what it was, what slumbering conscience or stifled yearning, had brought him to Kate last night and turned him back in time to what he had been five years before.

  Marjorie too was listening to the radio when he came in. “I was furious with you,” she said. “Then I decided it was a waste of my energy. You’re impossibly eccentric and I should be used to that by now. But do you mind telling me where you went?”

  “I saw Patrick,” he told her, not untruthfully.

  “Patrick! What on earth for?”

  “I’ve been wrong about him. Terribly wrong, and I admit I have.”

  “I can’t believe it! This attachment again! I thought we were rid of him. What is this fascination he has for you?”

  “That’s absurd, Marjorie. It’s a question of principle, not fascination.”

  “So now you’re on his side!”

  “Yes, after the things I’ve seen. I’ve had a late awakening, that’s all.”

  Marjorie sighed. “Well, I don’t suppose it matters, since we won’t be here, anyway. I only wish we were moved and rid of the whole business. Frankly, I’m scared to death. I suppose you aren’t, though.”

  “I am very scared, I assure you.”

  If Nicholas’s people firmed their hold—He shuddered to think of Kate and Patrick and so many more, whose names were unknown to him, who would suffer. God only knew what they would suffer.

  The radio crackled all afternoon. There
was an audible commotion in the street outside the station, until an obviously terrified announcer declared that the attackers had been repelled. Well into the evening the bulletins continued, but no decisive move in the turmoil was disclosed. And the troubled land waited.

  After a while Marjorie went up to bed. Francis went into his library, the one room in the house that was distinctly his own. There was nothing he wanted to do there; simply, there was comfort in the room, in the familiar Chinese ivories on the shelves, his books and that very fine Da Cunha, Cane Cutters, which his father had given him. Going to the window, he pulled back the curtains. Someone, Osborne probably, had seen to it that the floodlights were on, a safety measure for this night of unknown dangers. The lights, concealed low in the shrubbery, made paths of silver in the darkness. It was perfectly still and so beautiful a night that in a sudden gesture of impulsive gratitude he stretched out his arms to it.

  He feared for so many in this hour. There had been no relief of his own burdens: his child still lay helpless in her bed upstairs, a child who, for all that she was his “shadow,” would never be able to share thought with him; his wife lay upstairs, too, bound to him through their child, but never able to share love with him. And yet he felt such vast and awesome gratitude.

  The rapid events of the next three days were reported throughout the world.

  “In an astonishing display of loyalty and power, the party led by Patrick Courzon has restored order to St. Felice. More than three hundred soldiers and police, aided by hundreds of citizens, including many teenagers from various clandestine left-wing groups, combined to oust the government forces. White flags of surrender fly over government strongholds, while the green-and-white Courzon emblem is everywhere displayed. A curfew has been declared…. The dead and wounded number so far about seventy to eighty. The election will be held as scheduled….

  “The whereabouts of the prime minister are unknown. It is rumored that he has taken refuge somewhere in the country until after the election. The minister of justice was arrested, and it is rumored that he is being held in secret custody to protect him from the wrath of the public….