Dr. Bloodmoney

  “How many sheep does he have?” Barnes asked.

  “Three hundred. They’re out in the canyons around here, wild, so an accurate count is impossible. You’re not afraid of rams, are you?”

  “No,” Barnes said.

  “We’ll walk, then,” Bonny said.

  “And he’s the man the former teacher tried to kill,” Barnes murmured, as they crossed a sheep-nibbled field toward a low ridge overgrown with fir and shrubbery. Many of the shrubs, he noticed, had been nibbled; bare branches showed, indicating that a good number of Mr. Tree’s sheep were in the vicinity.

  “Yes,” the woman said, striding along, hands in her pockets. She added quickly, “But I have no idea why. Jack is—just a sheep rancher. I know it’s illegal to raise sheep on ground that could be plowed … but as you can see, very little of his land could be plowed; most of it is canyon. Maybe Mr. Austurias was jealous.”

  Mr. Barnes thought to himself, I don’t believe her. However, he was not particularly interested. He meant to avoid his predecessor’s mistake, in any case, whoever or whatever Mr. Tree was; he sounded, to Barnes, like something that had become part of the environment, no longer fully peripatetic and human. His notion of Mr. Tree made him uncomfortable; it was not a reassuring image that he held in his mind.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Gill couldn’t come with us,” Barnes said. He still had not met the famous tobacco expert, of whom he had heard even before coming to West Marin. “Did you tell me you have a music group? You play some sort of instruments?” It had sounded interesting, because he, at one time, had played the cello.

  “We play recorders,” Bonny said. “Andrew Gill and Jack Tree. And I play the piano; we play early composers, such as Henry Purcell and Johann Pachelbel. Doctor Stockstill now and then joins us, but—” She paused, frowning. “He’s so busy; he has so many towns to visit. He’s just too exhausted, in the evenings.”

  “Can anyone join your group?” Barnes inquired hopefully.

  “What do you play? I warn you: we’re severely classical. It’s not just an amateur get-together; George and Jack and I played in the old days, before the Emergency. We began—nine years ago. Gill joined us after the Emergency.” She smiled, and Barnes saw what lovely teeth she had. So many people, suffering from vitamin deficiencies and radiation sickness in recent times … they had lost teeth, developed soft gums. He hid his own teeth as best he could; they were no longer good.

  “I once played the cello,” he said, knowing that it was worthless as a former skill because there were—very simply—no cellos anywhere around now. Had he played a metal instrument…

  “What a shame,” Bonny said.

  “There are no stringed instruments in this area?” He believed that if necessary he could learn, say, the viola; he would be glad to, he thought, if by doing so he could join their group.

  “None,” Bonny said.

  Ahead, a sheep appeared, a black-faced Suffolk; it regarded them, then bucked, turned and fled. A ewe, Barnes saw, a big handsome one, with much meat on it and superb wool. He wondered if it had ever been sheared.

  His mouth watered. He had not tasted lamb in years.

  To Bonny he said, “Does he slaughter, or is it for wool only?”

  “For wool,” she answered. “He has a phobia about slaughtering; he won’t do it no matter what he’s offered. People sneak up and steal from his flock, of course … if you want lamb that’s the only way you’ll get it, so I advise you now: his flock is well-protected.” She pointed, and Barnes saw on a hilltop a dog standing watching them. At once he recognized it as an extreme mutation, a useful one; its face was intelligent, in a new way.

  “I won’t go near his sheep,” Barnes said. “It won’t bother us now, will it? It recognizes you?”

  Bonny said, “That’s why I came with you, because of the dog. Jack has only the one. But it’s sufficient.”

  Now the dog trotted toward them.

  Once, Barnes conjectured, its folk had been the familiar gray or black German shepherd; he identified the ears, the muzzle. But now—he waited rigidly as it approached. In his pocket he of course carried a knife; it had protected him many times, but surely this—it would not have done the job, here. He stayed close to the woman, who walked on unconcernedly.

  “Hi,” she said to the dog.

  Halting before them, the dog opened its mouth and groaned. It was a hideous sound, and Barnes shivered; it sounded like a human spastic, a damaged person trying to work a vocal apparatus which had failed. Out of the groaning he detected—or thought he detected—a word or so, but he could not be sure. Bonny, however, seemed to understand.

  “Nice Terry,” she said to the dog. “Thank you, nice Terry.” The dog wagged its tail. To Barnes she said, “We’ll find him a quarter mile along the trail.” She strode on.

  “What did the dog say?” he asked, when they were out of earshot of the animal.

  Bonny laughed. It irritated him, and he scowled. “Oh,” she said, “my God, it evolves a million years up the ladder—one of the greatest miracles in the evolution of life—and you can’t understand what it said.” She wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry, but it’s too damn funny. I’m glad you didn’t ask me where it could hear.”

  “I’m not impressed,” he said, defensively. “I’m just not very much impressed. You’ve been stuck here in this small rural area and it seems like a lot to you, but I’ve been up and down the Coast and I’ve seen things that would make you—” He broke off. “That’s nothing, that dog. Nothing by comparison, although intrinsically I suppose it’s a major feat.”

  Bonny told hold of his arm, still laughing. “Yes, you’re from the great outside. You’ve seen all there is; you’re right. What have you seen, Barnes? You know, my husband is your boss, and Orion Stroud is his boss. Why did you come here? Is this so remote? So rustic? I think this is a fine place to live; we have a stable community here. But as you say, we have few wonders. We don’t have the miracles and freaks, as you have in the big cities where the radiation was stronger. Of course, we have Hoppy.”

  “Hell,” Barnes said, “phoces are a dime a dozen; you see them everywhere, now.”

  “But you took a job here,” Bonny said, eyeing him.

  “I told you. I got into political trouble with little two-bit local authorities who considered themselves kings in their own little kingdom.”

  Thoughtfully, Bonny said, “Mr. Austurias was interested in political matters. And in psychology, as you are.” She continued to survey him, as they walked along. “He was not good-looking, and you are. He had a little round head like an apple. And his legs wobbled when he ran; he never should have run.” She became sober, now. “He did cook a delightful mushroom stew, shaggy manes and chanterelles—he knew them all. Will you invite me over for a mushroom dinner? It’s been too long … we did try hunting on our own, but as Mrs. Tallman said, it didn’t work out; we got promptly sick.”

  “You’re invited,” he said.

  “Do you find me attractive?” she asked him.

  Startled, he mumbled, “Sure, I certainly do.” He held onto her arm tightly, as if she were leading him. “Why do you ask?” he said, with caution and a growing deeper emotion whose nature he could not fathom; it was new to him. It resembled excitement and yet it had a cold, rational quality to it, so perhaps it was not an emotion at all; perhaps it was an awareness, a form of acute intuition, about himself and the landscape, about all things visible about him—it seemed to take in every aspect of reality, and most especially it had to do with her.

  In a split second he grasped the fact—without having any data to go on—that Bonny Keller had been having an affair with someone, possibly Gill the tobacco man or even this Mr. Tree or Orion Stroud; in any case the affair was over or leastwise nearly over and she was searching for another to replace it. She searched in an instinctive, practical way, rather than in some starry-eyed romantic school-girl fashion. So no doubt she had had a good many affairs; she seemed expert in this, in the soundi
ng people out to see how they would fit.

  And me, he thought; I wonder if I would fit. Isn’t it dangerous? My God, her husband, as she said, is my boss, the school principal.

  But then perhaps he was imagining it, because it really did not appear very likely that this attractive woman who was a leader in the community and who scarcely knew him would select him like this… but she had not selected him; she was merely in the process of exploring. He was being tried, but as yet he had not succeeded. His pride began to swim up as an authentic emotion coloring the cold rational insight of a moment before. Its distorting power made itself felt instantly; all at once he wanted to be successful, to be selected, whatever the risk. And he did not have any love or sexual desire toward her; it was far too early for that. All that was involved was his pride, his desire not to be passed over.

  It’s weird, he thought to himself; he was amazed at himself, at how simple he was. His mind worked like some low order of life, something on the order of a starfish; it had one or two responses and that was all.

  “Listen,” he said, “where is this man Tree?” He walked on ahead of her, now, peering to see, concentrating on the ridge ahead with its trees and flowers. He saw a mushroom in a dark hollow and at once started toward it. “Look,” he said. “Chicken-of-the-forest, they call it. Very delectable. You don’t see it very often, either.”

  Coming over to see, Bonny Keller bent down. He caught a glimpse of her bare, pale knees as she seated herself on the grass by the mushroom. “Are you going to pick it?” she asked. “And carry it off like a trophy?”

  “I’ll carry if off,” he said, “but not like a trophy. More like a thing to pop into the frying pan with a bit of beef fat.”

  Her dark, attractive eyes fixed themselves on him somberly; she sat brushing her hair back, looking as if she were going to speak. But she did not. At last he became uncomfortable; apparently she was waiting for him, and it occurred to him—chillingly—that he was not merely supposed to say something; he was supposed to do something.

  They stared at each other, and Bonny, too, now looked frightened, as if she felt as he did. Neither of them did anything, however; each sat waiting for the other to make a move. He had the sudden hunch that if he reached toward her she would either slap him or run off… and there would be unsavory consequences. She might—good lord; they had killed their last teacher. The thought came to him now with enormous force: could it have been this? Could she have been having a love affair with him and he started to tell her husband or some damn thing? Is this as dangerous as that? Because if it is, my pride can go to hell; I want to get away.

  Bonny said, “Here’s Jack Tree.”

  Over the ridge came the dog, the mutation with the alleged ability to speak, and slightly behind it came a haggard-faced man, bent, with round, stooped shoulders. He wore a seedy coat, a city man’s coat, and dirty blue-gray trousers. In no way did he look like a farmer; he looked, Mr. Barnes thought, like a middle-aged insurance clerk who had been lost in the forest for a month or so. The man had a black-smeared chin which contrasted in an unpleasant manner with his unnaturally white skin. Immediately Mr. Barnes experienced dislike. But, was it because of Mr. Tree’s physical appearance? God knew he had seen maimed, burned, damaged and blighted humans and creatures in profusion, during the last years … no, his reaction to Mr. Tree was based on the man’s peculiar shambling walk. It was the walk—not of a well man—but of a violently sick man. A man sick in a sense that Barnes had never experienced before.

  “Hi,” Bonny said, rising to her feet.

  The dog frisked up, acting in a most natural manner now.

  “I’m Barnes, the new school teacher,” Barnes said, rising, too, and extending his hand.

  “I’m Tree,” the sick man said, also extending his hand. When Barnes took it he found it unaccountably moist; it was difficult if not impossible for him to hold onto it—he let it drop at once.

  Bonny said, “Jack, Mr. Barnes here is an authority on removing lambs’ tails after they’re grown and the danger of tetanus is so great.”

  “I see,” Tree nodding. But he seemed only to be going through the motions; he did not seem really to care or even to understand. Reaching down he thumped the dog. “Barnes,” he said to the dog distinctly, as if he were teaching the dog the name.

  The dog groaned. “…brnnnnz…” It barked, eyeing its master with gleaming hopefulness.

  “Right,” Mr. Tree said, smiling. He displayed almost no teeth at all, just empty gums. Worse even than me, Barnes thought. The man must have been down below, near San Francisco, when the big bomb fell; that’s one possibility, or it could simply be diet, as in my case. Anyhow, he avoided looking; he walked away, hands in his pockets.

  “You’ve got a lot of land here,” he said over his shoulder. “Through what legal agency did you acquire title? The County of Marin?”

  “There’s no title,” Mr. Tree said. “I just have use. The West Marin Citizens’ Council and the Planning Committee allow me, through Bonny’s good offices.”

  “That dog fascinates me,” Barnes said, turning. “It really talks; it said my name clearly.”

  “Say ‘good day’ to Mr. Barnes,” Mr. Tree said to the dog.

  The dog woofed, then groaned, “Gddday, Mrbarnzzzzz.” It woofed again, this time eyeing him for his reaction.

  To himself, Barnes sighed. “Really terrific,” he said to the dog. It whined and skipped about with joy.

  At that, Mr. Barnes felt some sympathy for it. Yes, it was a remarkable feat. Yet—the dog repelled him as did Tree himself; both of them had an isolated, warped quality, as if by being out here in the forest alone they had been cut off from normal reality. They had not gone wild; they had not reverted to anything resembling barbarism. They were just plain unnatural. He simply did not like them.

  But he did like Bonny and he wondered how the hell she had gotten mixed up with a freak like Mr. Tree. Did owning a lot of sheep make the man a great power in this small community; was it that? Or—was there something more, something which might explain the former—dead—teacher’s action in trying to kill Mr. Tree?

  His curiosity was aroused; it was the same instinct, perhaps, that came into play when he spotted a new variety of mushroom and felt the intense need to catalogue it, to learn exactly which species it was. Not very flattering to Mr. Tree, he thought caustically, comparing him to a fungus. But it was true; he did feel that way, about both him and his weird dog.

  Mr. Tree said to Bonny, “Your little girl isn’t along, today.”

  “No,” Bonny said. “Edie isn’t well.”

  “Anything serious?” Mr. Tree said in his hoarse voice. He looked concerned.

  “A pain in her stomach, that’s all. She gets it every now and then; has as far back as I can remember. It’s swollen and hard. Possibly it’s appendicitis, but surgery is so dangerous, these days—” Bonny broke off, then turned to Barnes. “My little girl, you haven’t met her … she loves this dog, Terry. They’re good friends, they talk back and forth by the hour when we’re out here.”

  Mr. Tree said, “She and her brother.”

  “Listen,” Bonny said, “I’ve gotten sick and tired of that. I told Edie to quit that. In fact, that’s why I like her to come out here and play with Terry; she should have actual playmates and not become so introverted and delusional. Don’t you agree, Mr. Barnes; you’re a teacher—a child should relate to actuality, not fantasy, isn’t that right?”

  “These days,” Barnes said thoughtfully, “I can understand a child withdrawing into fantasy … it’s hard to blame him. Perhaps we all ought to be doing that.” He smiled, but Bonny did not smile back, nor did Mr. Tree.

  Not for a moment had Bruno Bluthgeld taken his eyes off the new young teacher—if this actually was the truth; if this short young man dressed in khaki trousers and work shirt really was a teacher, as Bonny had said.

  Is he after me, too? Bluthgeld asked himself. Like the last one? I suppose so. And Bonny broug
ht him here… does that mean that even she, after all, is on their side? Against me?

  He could not believe that. Not after all these years. And it had been Bonny who had discovered Mr. Austurias’ actual purpose in coming to West Main. Bonny had saved him from Mr. Austurias and he was grateful; he would not now be alive except for her, and he could never forget that, so perhaps this Mr. Barnes was exactly what he claimed to be and there was nothing to worry about. Bluthgeld breathed a little more relaxedly now; he calmed himself and looked forward to showing Barnes his new-born Suffolk lambs.

  But sooner or later, he said to himself, someone will track me here and kill me. It’s only a matter of time; they all detest me and they will never give up. The world is still seeking the man responsible for all that happened and I can’t blame them. They are right in doing so. After all, I carry on my shoulders the responsibility for the death of millions, the loss of three-fourths of the world, and neither they nor I can forget that. Only God has the power to forgive and forget such a monstrous crime against humanity.

  He thought, I would not have killed Mr. Austurias; I would have let him destroy me. But Bonny and the others—the decision was theirs. It was not mine, because I can no longer make decisions. I am no longer allowed to by God; it would not be proper. My job is to wait here, tending my sheep, wait for him who is to come, the man appointed to deal out final justice. The world’s avenger.

  When will he come? Bluthgeld asked himself. Soon? I’ve waited yeas now. I’m tired … I hope it won’t be too much longer.

  Mr. Barnes was saying, “What did you do, Mr. Tree, before you became a sheep rancher?”

  “I was an atomic scientist,” Bluthgeld said.

  Hurriedly, Bonny said, “Jack was a teacher; he taught physics. High school physics. That wasn’t around here, of course.”

  “A teacher,” Mr. Barnes said. “Then we have something in common.” He smiled at Doctor Bluthgeld and automatically Bluthgeld smiled back. With nervousness Bonny watched the two of them, her hands clasped together, as if she were afraid that something was going to happen, something dreadful.