The Heaven Makers Part 10

"Yeah, I understand." Peter looked at Chaplain Hardwicke who refused to meet the boy's gaze.

"What's this about school?" Thurlow asked.

"The boy hasn't finished high school," Whelye said. He faced Peter. "Wouldn't you like to go back and finish high school?"

"Yeah."

"Do you like to go to school?" Whelye asked.

"Yeah."

"Wouldn't you like to finish your education and get a job where you could pay your own way and save money and get married?"

"Yeah."

Whelye glanced triumphantly at Thurlow. "Anybody got any questions?"

Thurlow had slowly been building up in his mind the a.n.a.logy of a stud poker game. Peter was in the position of a player who didn't believe anything happening here, nor did he disbelieve anything. He was waiting to see the rest of the cards.

"Isn't it true, Peter," Thurlow asked, "that you'd rather be hungry than on a full stomach?"

"Yeah." The boy had turned his attention to Whelye now.

"Isn't it true, Peter," Thurlow asked, "that you'd rather eat a dry crust of bread than have a nice juicy piece of meat on your dinner plate?"

"Yeah."

"That's all," Thurlow said.

At Mrs. Norman's signal, the attendant took Peter once more from the room.

"I think when we get to the next patient," Thurlow said, "we should swear him in like they do in court."

Whelye remained silent for a moment. He shuffled his papers, then: "I don't see what you're driving at."

"You reminded me of a district attorney of my acquaintance," Thurlow said.

"Oh?" Whelye's eyes glazed with anger.

"By the way," Thurlow said, "do you believe in flying saucers?"

The heads of both Mrs. Norman and Chaplain Hardwicke snapped up. They stared at Thurlow. Whelye, however, drew back, his eyes veiled, watchful.

"What is the meaning of that question?" Whelye demanded.

"I'd like to know your position," Thurlow said.

"On flying saucers?" There was a cautious disbelief in Whelye's tone.

"Yes."

"They're delusional material," Whelye said. "Utter nonsense. Oh, there could be a few cases of mistaken ident.i.ty, weather balloons and that sort of thing, but the people who insist they've seen s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps, these people are in need of our services."

"A sound opinion," Thurlow said. "I'm glad to hear it"

Whelye nodded. "I don't care what you think of my methods," he said, "but you're not going to find my opinions based on delusional material -- of any type. Is that clear?"

"Quite clear," Thurlow said. He saw that Whelye was convinced the question had carried a subtle intent to discredit

Whelye got to his feet, glanced at his watch. "I fail to see the point in all this, but doubtless you had some idea in mind." He left the room.

Mrs. Norman took a deep breath, bent a look of sympathy on Thurlow. "You like to play with fire, evidently," she said.

Thurlow stood up, smiled.

Hardwicke, catching Thurlow's eyes, said: "The defense rests."

As the scene pa.s.sed through his mind, Thurlow shook his head. Again, he glanced at his wrist.w.a.tch, smiled at himself as the unconscious gesture displayed the stopped hands. The air coming in the car window smelled of wet leaves.

Why did Ruth ask me to meet her here? She's another man's wife now. Where is she -- so d.a.m.ned late! Could something have happened to her?

He looked at his pipe.

d.a.m.n pipe's gone out. Always going out. I smoke matches, not tobacco. Hate to burn myself with this woman again. Poor Ruth -- tragedy, tragedy. She was very close to her mother.

He tried to remember the murdered woman. Adele Murphey was photographs and descriptions in stories now, a reflection from the words of witnesses and police. The Adele Murphey he'd known refused to come out from behind the brutal new images. Her features were beginning to grow dim in the leaf whirl of things that fade. His mind held only the police pictures now -- color photos in the file at the sheriff's office -- the red hair (so much like the daughter's) fanned out on an oil-stained driveway.

Her bloodless skin in the photo -- he remembered that.

And he remembered the words of the witness, Sarah French, the doctor's wife from next door, words on a deposition. Through Mrs. French's words, he could almost visualize that violent scene. Sarah French had heard shouting, a scream. She'd looked out of her second floor bedroom window onto moon-flooded night just in time to see the murder.

"Adele . . . Mrs. Murphey came running out of her back door. She was wearing a green nightgown . . . very thin. She was barefooted. I remember thinking how odd: she's barefooted. Then Joe was right behind her. He had that d.a.m.ned Malay kriss. It looked horrible, horrible. I could see his face . . . the moonlight. He looked like he always looks when he's angry. He has such a terrible temper!"

Sarah's words -- Sarah's words . . . Thurlow could almost see that zigzag blade glinting in Joe Murphey's hand, a vicious, s.h.i.+vering, wavering thing in the mottled shadows. It had taken Joe no more than ten steps to catch his wife. Sarah had counted the blows.

"I just stood there counting each time he struck her. I don't know why. I just counted. Seven times. Seven times."

Adele had sprawled onto the concrete, her hair spreading in that uneven splash which the cameras later recorded. Her knees had drawn up into a fetal curve, then straightened.

And all that time, the doctor's wife had been standing there at the upstairs window, left hand to mouth, her flesh a rigid, mortal concrete.

"I couldn't move. I couldn't even speak. All I could do was just watch him."

Joe Murphey's oddly thin-wristed right hand had come up, hurled the kriss in a short arc onto the lawn. Unhurriedly, he had walked around his wife's body, avoided the spreading patch of red that trailed down the concrete. Presently, he'd merged with the shadows of trees where the driveway entered the street. Sarah had heard a car motor start. Its lights had flashed on. The car had roared away in a gritty scattering of gravel.

Then, and only then, Sarah had found she could move. She'd called an ambulance.

"Andy?"