The Heaven Makers Part 18

Presently, she'd nodded, then: "I knew it . . . I guess."

"Ruth, I'll do everything I . . ."

"No." She tucked a strand of red hair under her cap. "They let him call me from the jail . . . just before you came. He was furious with you. He won't accept anything you say."

They must've told him about my report, Thurlow thought. "Now he knows his mask of sanity isn't working," he said. "Of course he's furious."

"Andy . . . are you sure?"

She put her hand on his, her palm damp with perspiration. He held her hand, thinking of mingled perspiration: the idea carried an odd sense of intimacy.

"You're sure," she sighed. "I've seen it coming." Again, that deep sigh. "I didn't tell you about Christmas."

"Christmas?"

"Christmas Eve. My . . . I came home from the hospital. I had the late s.h.i.+ft then, remember? He was walking around talking to himself . . . saying horrible things about mother. I could hear her upstairs in her room . . . crying. I . . . I guess I screamed at him, called him a liar."

She took two quick breaths.

"He . . . hit me, knocked me into the Christmas tree . . . everything knocked over . . ." She put a hand to her eyes. "He'd never hit me before -- always said he didn't believe in spankings, he'd had so many beatings when he was a boy."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"We were . . . I . . . I was ashamed of . . . I thought if . . ." She shrugged. "I went out to the clinic and saw Dr. Whelye, but he said . . . fights, people in the conflict of marriage are . . ."

"Sounds like him. Did your mother know he hit you?"

"She heard him storm out and slam the door. He didn't come back all night. Christmas Eve! She . . . she'd heard the commotion. She came down, helped me clean up the mess."

"I wish I'd known this when I was talking to . . ."

"What good would it do? Everyone defends him, even mother. You know what she said while she was helping me clean up? 'Your father's a very sick man, Ruthy.' Defending him!"

"What about your neighbor, Sarah French? Does . . . ?"

"Oh . . . she and Dr. French heard the fights. Sarah . . . Sarah knows daddy's sick. Dr. French . . ." Ruth shrugged.

"But as long as she knows, maybe . . ."

"She doesn't mean mental illness. Dr. French thinks he has a progressive sclerotic condition, but daddy won't go into the hospital for a complete examination. She knows about that and that's what she meant. That's all she meant!"

"Ruth . . ." He thought about this revelation for a moment. "Ruth, severe conditions of this kind, Monckeberg's sclerosis, for example, frequently are accompanied by personality distortions. Didn't you know this?"

"I . . . he wouldn't cooperate, go to a hospital or anything. I talked to Dr. French . . . Whelye. He was no help at all. I warned mother -- the violence and . . ."

"Perhaps if she'd . . ."

"They've been married twenty-seven years. I can't convince her he really might harm her."

"But he struck you, knocked you down."

"She said I provoked him."

Memories, memories -- an antiseptic little corner of the hospital cafeteria and it was fixed in his memory now as indelibly as was this dark street outside the house where Ruth had lived with Nev. The warnings about Joe Murphey had been plain enough, but the world wasn't yet prepared to understand and protect itself from its own madness.

Again, he looked at the silent house, the glow of lights through the rain. As he looked, a woman in a glistening raincoat came running out between Ruth's house and the one on the left. For an instant, he thought it was Ruth and he was half out of the car before the streetlight hit her and he saw it was an older woman with a coat thrown on over a robe. She wore slippers that squished wetly as she crossed the lawn.

"You, there!" she called, waving at Thurlow.

Thurlow came fully out of the car. The rain was cold in his hair, on his face. He felt overcome with foreboding.

The woman came panting up to him, stopped with the rain running down out of her gray hair. "Our telephone's out," she said. "My husband's run across to the Innesses to use theirs, but I thought maybe all the phones're out, so I came . . ."

"Why do you need a phone?" The words sounded hoa.r.s.e even to him.

"We live next door . . ." She pointed. "I can see from our kitchen across the patio to the Hudsons' and I saw him lying there, so I ran over . . . he's dead . . ."

"Ruth . . . Mrs. Hudson?"

"No, Mr. Hudson. I saw her come in a while ago, but there's no sign of her around. We've got to call the police."

"Yes, yes, of course." He started toward the house.

"She's not in there, I tell you. I ran all through the house."

"Maybe . . . maybe you missed . . ."

"Mister, there's been a terrible accident, maybe she's already gone for help."

"Accident?" He turned, stared back at her.

"He fell into one of them gla.s.s doors, cut an artery, looks like. She probably ran for help."

"But . . . I was out here and . . ."

A police cruiser came around the corner to his left, its red light flas.h.i.+ng. It pulled to a stop behind his car. Two officers got out. Thurlow recognized one of them -- Maybeck, Carl Maybeck, a slim angular man with bony wrists, narrow face. He came loping across the lawn to Thurlow while his companion went to the woman.

"Oh . . . Dr. Thurlow," Maybeck said. "Didn't recognize you." He stopped, facing Thurlow. "What's the trouble? We got a call, something about an accident. Ambulance's on the way."

"The woman there . . ." Thurlow nodded toward her, ". . . says Nev Hudson's dead, something about falling into some gla.s.s. She may be mistaken. Shouldn't we get inside and . . ."

"Right away, Doc."

Maybeck led the way running up to the front door. It was locked.

"Around the side," the woman called from behind them. "Patio doors're open."

They ran back down the steps, around the side, wet leaves of shrubbery soaking them. Thurlow felt himself moving in a daze. Ruth! My G.o.d, where are you? He skidded on the wet bricks of the patio, almost fell, righted himself and was staring down at the red mess that had been Nev Hudson.