The Man Who Risked His Partner

  The next day I regained consciousness. And the day after that I could talk again. Another miracle of modern medicine. It’s amazing what transfusions and antibiotics can do for you. During visiting hours Ginny and I finally got a good look at each other.

  She stood beside my bed looking like she’d put on her best clothes just for me. Her hair shone, and she wore exactly the right amount of makeup. The only thing that kept her from being beautiful was the uncertainty in her eyes. Her broken nose didn’t count. I’d always liked her nose. And her claw didn’t bother me.

  I felt grungy as hell in comparison. The baths they give you in hospital beds aren’t ever the same as being clean. And I hadn’t shaved since I could remember.

  Nevertheless, I smiled up at her as well as I could. “Hi,” I said. A conversational masterstroke. My pleasure at seeing her was genuine. I just wasn’t any more sure of myself than she was.

  She gave me back a crooked smile. “Hi, yourself.” Then she nodded at my IVs. “They wanted to tie you in bed this time. I told them not to bother. Nobody pulls a stunt like that twice.

  “On the other hand”—she shrugged, grimacing wryly—“most people don’t even do it once. I wish I knew what in hell possessed you to be such a hero.”

  That was an indirect reference to the source of her uncertainty. She didn’t want to come right out and name it, so she tried to sneak up on it instead.

  Maybe I knew better. Or maybe I was still muzzy-headed with drugs and convalescence. Whatever the reason, I didn’t fall into the trap.

  “Me?” I protested, taking a stab at humorous sarcasm. “You’re the one who went to see el Senor. When I tried that, it almost killed me. And you’re the one who went after Haskell. In that house, in the dark, without even a gun.”

  Later she told me how she did it. She made it sound simple. She went downstairs as quietly as she could, but when she reached the kitchen she made just enough noise to help him find her. She opened the refrigerator, helped herself to a carton of milk, and hid behind one of the counters, using the fridge light to watch the room. When Haskell finally came to investigate, she hit him with the milk. That didn’t keep him from shooting, but it threw him off balance, let her get close. Then she punched his throat out with her claw.

  “You’ve got some nerve,” I went on, “accusing me of being a hero.”

  She smiled a little. But she wasn’t deflected. “I mean it, Brew. I want to know. Why did you do it?”

  She was dangerously close to what she really wanted from me. That made me nervous. On the other hand, it was an opportunity for me as well.

  “I’ll trade you,” I countered quietly. “You tell me why you decided to put on your claw.”

  We must’ve looked pretty silly, dancing around each other like this when both of us knew exactly what was going on and refused to say it. But it had to be that way. After a fashion, we were protecting each other.

  She nodded, accepting the trade. “Talking to el Señor did it. I felt so helpless. You’ve been there. You know what he’s like. I wasn’t in his league.

  “That changed the way I thought about”—she glanced down at her artificial hand—“about things. Until then, a hand and a claw felt like so much less than two hands. Too much less. I just felt crippled. But then I realized that a hand and a claw is still a hell of a lot more than a hand and a stump. And I needed all the help I could get”

  Carefully she avoided saying what she didn’t want me to hear. I did it for you. As long as she didn’t say it, I couldn’t be sure it was true.

  And as long as I could think that she did it for herself, that she accepted the claw because she was willing to live with it, I had reason to hope.

  So I answered her question the same way.

  “Mostly I think I was feeling useless. I wanted to work on Pablo’s murder for myself. Prove I was still good for something. But I didn’t get anywhere. I needed to talk to people who might know why he was killed. Leaving the hospital, getting a ride from Santiago—that was my only chance. If I waited until I healed, the case would be closed. Or cold.

  “Santiago must’ve told you the rest. When I realized Haskell killed Pablo, I had to go looking for evidence.”

  “He told me,” she agreed. “Knowing you, it even makes a weird kind of sense. But after you’d done all that—after I finally got there, and we were free, and you didn’t have to worry about it anymore—Brew, what in God’s name made you decide to climb out the window? You might’ve hemorrhaged to death.”

  I shook my head. “It’s my turn.” If I’d been more alert, I could’ve enjoyed this little game. “First you tell me what in God’s name made you decide to go after Haskell without so much as a weapon. You didn’t have to do that. We could’ve both climbed out the window.”

  She let out a snort of disgust “You’re right. That was stupid. But I was too pissed off to do anything else. That bastard lied and lied to us, and then he planned to kill us. I couldn’t stand to think he might get away with it. If I’d had any sense, I would’ve called the cops and let them handle it.”

  I wanted to applaud. This was getting to be fun. “You worry me, Fistoulari. Next to you, I’m the personification of logic and sweet reason. Jumping out the window was the best idea I had all night. Haskell believed that Estobal would come after him, so I figured I could count on it. But if Estobal caught me in the house, I was a goner. My only chance was to get behind him.”

  It was working. The anxiety in her eyes began to fade.

  I hardly missed a beat. “Speaking of Rudolfo Santiago,” I went on, shamelessly changing the subject, “what do you hear from him? How are he and Tatianna doing?”

  That made her frown a little. My answers didn’t satisfy her. But I put on an I’m-an-invalid-so-you-ought-to-humor-me look, and she relented.

  “I went to see them yesterday. They’re still grieving, but I don’t think they’re as bitter about it as they were. He’s secretly proud of himself. He believes he saved your life by taking Estobal’s gun. Which is probably true, by the way. And I got the impression that she’s relieved it was an outsider who killed her son, an Anglo, not someone who’s part of her community. All Anglos are crazy. That makes her feel better.”

  “Good.” Since I couldn’t get out of bed anyway, I was grateful for everything I didn’t have to worry about. “I presume Canthorpe’s off the hook?”

  She nodded.

  Good again. “I’d be surprised if there was anything we could do for Eunice Wint. What about Sara Haskell?”

  Ginny’s frown narrowed into a black scowl. But it was a special scowl, one I fell in love with years ago. It said, I’m Ginny by God Fistoulari, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to laugh at this.

  Her voice hard with control, she said, “They served the papers this morning. Mrs. Reginald Haskell is suing us for ‘wrongful death.’ She thinks we used excessive force on her poor husband. Also we were incompetent. My license is suspended until the board can schedule a hearing.”

  I would’ve at least chuckled for her, but my stomach still hurt too much. “How long will that be?” We were safe on this one. The board gets pretty snooty sometimes, but when they heard the evidence they would throw out Mrs. Haskell’s case. Politely, of course.

  She shrugged. “Ten days? Two weeks?”

  “That’s okay. A little vacation won’t hurt you. And I won’t be on my feet for a while. You wouldn’t want to work without me.”

  I’d given distraction my best shot, but she refused to give up what she wanted to know. Instead she rephrased it.

  “Brew,” she asked intently, “why did we take that case? What made it so important? What did we go through all that for?”

  It was the same question she’d been asking all along. And she wanted an honest answer. But I didn’t let the earnest gray of her gaze lure me into a mistake.

  Distinctly I told her, “Because Haskell wanted protection against el Senor. That time I went to see him, I was desperate. Your life was in dang
er. It wouldn’t have cost him anything to help me. But he refused.” Instead he’d forced me to drink when her life had depended on my sobriety. “I knew this case was dangerous, Ginny. I just wanted revenge.”

  She understood. Both sides of it—what I said, and what I didn’t. It seemed to make her face soft and sad and relieved all at the same time. “You know something, Axbrewder?” she murmured. “Sometimes you’re almost a nice man.”

  Bending down, she rested a kiss on my forehead.

  My guts still hurt, and I had IVs plugged into both elbows, but I didn’t care. I put my arms around her and welcomed her back.

  Author’s note

  This novel has been slightly revised since its original publication.

  By Stephen R. Donaldson

  The Man Who Killed His Brother

  The Man Who Risked His Partner

  The Man Who Tried to Get Away

  The Man Who Fought Alone

  The Chronicles of

  Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever

  Lord Foul’s Bane

  The Illearth War

  The Power That Preserves

  The Second Chronicles of

  Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever

  The Wounded Land

  The One Tree

  White Gold Wielder

  Mordant’s Need

  The Mirror of Her Dreams

  A Man Rides Through

  The Gap

  The Gap into Conflict: The Real Story

  The Gap into Vision: Forbidden Knowledge

  The Gap into Power: A Dark and Hungry God Arises

  The Gap into Madness: Chaos and Order

  The Gap into Ruin: This Day All Gods Die

  Short Fiction

  Daughter of Regals and Other Tales

  Reave the Just and Other Tales

  Santiago spoke first. “Senor Axbrewder, what we have is yours. How may we serve you?”

  “I have read in the newspaper concerning the disappearance of young Pablo,” I said. “I have done my work for you in the past, as you know. Now I wish to do such work again. If you will permit it, I wish to seek his whereabouts.”

  “Señor Axbrewder,” he said softly, “among our people many tales are told. One tale concerns a large hombre who labors among the sufferings of others and has become devoted to strong drink. I have heard also that that this same hombre once sought speech with that unforgiving pendejo whom the Anglos name el Senor. But el Senor forced drink upon him and caused him to be beaten and cast him out.”

  It took me a minute to sort out what he meant. He was warning me. He was trying to tell me that a drunk el Señor didn’t like had better not go around asking questions about Pablo. But why?

  “My friends,” I said, “I have had no drink for many months. I will do nothing that is foolish. But I swear to you that I will do all that I am able, so that the deaths of children will not continue.”

  He didn’t respond, afraid that he’d let me into more trouble than I could handle. But she wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands and said, “Gracias, Señor.”

  So that I wouldn’t start foaming at the mouth, I turned and walked out of the store.

  I was thinking, el Señor knows Pablo is dead.

  He knows Pablo was killed.

  He knows why.

  Look for

  THE MAN WHO TRIED TO GET AWAY

  by

  Stephen R. Donaldson

  Coming soon in hardcover

  from Forge Books

  Turn the page for a preview

  1

  Of course, I lost weight. People do that after they’ve been shot in the gut. But I could afford a little weight. Cooking for Ginny had given me more pounds than it did her. My real problem was movement.

  Muy Estobal’s bullet had torn me up pretty good inside, even if it did leave my vital organs alone. And I hadn’t done myself any favors with all that hiking around the night after I got shot. The doctor told me that if I walked to the bathroom with my IVs nailed to my arms every hour or so until he started hearing “bowel sounds,” he would maybe consider removing my catheter. As a special reward for being such a good patient.

  That was easy for him to say. El Señor didn’t want him dead. It wasn’t his problem I might die because of the simple fact that I couldn’t get out of bed.

  I needed to move. To escape from the hospital. Before el Señor sent Estobal’s replacement after me.

  So far I’d only been stuck her for forty-eight hours, and it was already driving me crackers. If they hadn’t given me so many pills, I wouldn’t have been able to sleep at night. I would’ve stayed awake the whole time, watching the door. Expecting to see some goon with at least an Uzi come in to blow me away.

  Ginny hadn’t been much help. She kept telling me that there wasn’t any danger, there was too much heat on el Señor, he couldn’t afford to risk having me hit so soon. Which should’ve been true, I suppose. And I should’ve believed her. I’d believed her when she first said it.

  Hadn’t I?

  But after that, unfortunately, I got a phone call.

  It came during the day, when the hospital switchboard was on automatic, and the winter sunlight and the blue sky outside my window made everything I could see look safe. But I must not have been feeling particularly safe, because I believed my caller right away.

  When the phone rang, I picked it up and said, “Huh,” because that’s easier than hello when your whole torso is strapped with bandages and you don’t feel much like breathing deeply anyway.

  A voice I almost knew said, “Get out of there. He wants you. You’re a sitting duck.”

  Then the line went dead.

  Cheered me right up, that did.

  When I told Ginny about it, she looked just for a second like she believed it, too. Her gray eyes sharpened, and the lines around her broken nose went tight. But after that she grinned. “Probably somebody’s idea of a joke.”

  Oh, sure. I’d killed Muy Estobal, el Señor’s favorite muscle. Together, Ginny and I’d disrupted el Senor’s revenge on a man who’d ripped him off and murdered one of his people. Everyone around him probably laughed out loud whenever my name came up.

  But my caller wasn’t finished.

  The next day, the doctor heard gurgling in my guts—bowel function struggling back to life—and took out the catheter. I got the thrill of starting to feed myself hospital gruel, which tasted like pureed dog food. And I was encouraged to get out of bed and actually stand until pain made my head ring like a gong, and my famous bowels hurt like they’d been shredded.

  I was horizontal again, holding on to the bed and doing my best not to gasp, when the phone rang.

  This time my caller said, “I mean it. You haven’t got much time. He wants you dead.”

  I felt like I was inches away from recognizing that voice, but I couldn’t pull it in. Gremlins in spiked boots raced up and down my intestines, distracting me.

  “Who?” I asked. At the moment I didn’t care how much it hurt to breathe so hard. “Who wants me dead? Who are you? Why are you warning me?”

  The line switched to a dial tone.

  So when Ginny stopped by for her daily visit, I made her get the .45 out of my locker and leave it where I could reach it.

  “You’re taking this too seriously.” She sounded bored. “El Señor is practically paralyzed right now. The cops are watching everything he does. Even crooked cops are going to be honest for a while, with this much heat on. The commissioner is talking about ‘wiping out organized crime in Puerta del Sol.’ The newspapers are jumping up and down. I get interviewed at least once a day. Fistoulari Investigations never had so much publicity. I’m actually having to turn clients away.

  “Brew, you’re safe. Just relax. Get well.”

  Just relax. Why didn’t I think of that? “If this is supposed to be a joke,” I muttered past my bandages, “I’d hate to meet whoever’s doing it when he’s in a bad mood.”

  “You sure you can’t identify
the voice?”

  I shrugged. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it was better than arguing.

  “I’ll check with the switchboard on my way out.” Now she was humoring me. “Maybe they can take your line out of the automatic circuit. If we screen your calls, maybe we’ll find out who’s calling.”

  I wanted to say, Don’t screen my calls. Get me out of here. But I didn’t. I let her go. She and I had too many problems, and the worst of them was that we were afraid of each other. We hadn’t had a straight conversation in months because we were both too busy trying to control each other’s reactions. She was afraid that if she said or did the wrong thing, I’d go get drunk and never be sober again. And I feared that I might push her back into being the lost woman she’d become after she lost her hand.

  She wore her “prosthetic device” now, the mechanical claw that took the place of her left hand. Which was an improvement. But she still wore it like a handicap instead of something familiar, something she trusted. I figured that the only reason she wore it was to appease me. She was afraid of what I might do if she didn’t. She had it on to protect me. Or to protect herself against me.

  I loved her. I used to think she loved me. But it didn’t show. Everything was twisted. We might as well have been chained together by our various fears. So I didn’t tell that her I was too scared to stay in the hospital by myself. I didn’t want to add to her worries.

  Unfortunately the switchboard couldn’t take just one line off automatic. The next day, I got another call.

  By then I’d spent twenty-four hours expecting it. I was just a touch jumpy when I reached for the phone. Ol’ nerves-of-steel Axbrewder. Weak as spaghetti in that damn bed. I fumbled the receiver onto the floor and had to pull it up by the cord to answer it.