“Mr. Wilson?” the judge asked.
The prosecutor rose and walked toward Raphael. “Mr. Taylor, from your observation then, would you say that Mr. Flood was definitely not the leader of this—ah—group?”
“No, sir. It was Heintzie’s gang, and it was Heintzie’s war. The gun was Flood’s, though. I think it’s what they call escalation. About all Heintzie wanted to do was put a few people in the hospital. Killing people was Flood’s idea. In the end, though, he was just another member of the gang—a loser.”
“Uh—” The prosecutor looked down at his notes. It was obvious that he had not expected the kind of testimony Raphael had just given them. “I—uh—I guess I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
“Miss Berensen?” the judge said.
“Your Honor, I wouldn’t dignify any of this by even questioning it. My only suggestion would be that Mr. Taylor might consider seeking professional help.”
“That’s enough of that, Miss Berensen!” The judge sat for a long time looking at the bandaged and sullenly glowering young men seated behind the defense table. Finally he shook his head. “Losers,” he murmured so softly that only Raphael could hear him. Then he turned. “Mr. Taylor, you’re an intelligent and articulate young man—too intelligent and articulate to just sit on the sidelines the way you’re doing. You seem to have some very special talents—profound insight and extraordinary compassion. I think I’d like to know what you plan to do with the rest of your life.”
“I’m leaving Spokane, Your Honor. I came here to get some personal things taken care of. Now that all that’s done, there’s no reason for me to stay anymore. I’ll find another town—maybe I’ll find another rooftop and another street full of losers. Somebody has to care for them after all. All my options are open, so I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see what happens tomorrow—trust to luck, if you want to put it that way.”
The judge sighed. “Thank you, Mr. Taylor. You may step down.”
Raphael got his crutches squared away, stood up, and went carefully down the single step from the witness stand. Then he walked smoothly up the center aisle with the stately, flowing pace of a one-legged man who has mastered his crutches and is no longer a cripple. He hesitated a moment at the door. There was still the matter of the two derelicts who had been found shot to death in downtown alleys. He realized, however, that he really had no proof that it had been Flood who had so casually shot them as a means of proving to himself that he did in fact have the nerve to shoot another human being. Raphael also realized that he would prefer to leave it simply at that. A suspicion was not a certainty, and for some reason he did not want that final nail driven in. If it had been Flood, it would not happen again; and in any case, if he were to suggest it to the prosecutor or anyone else, it would probably delay the escape from Spokane with Denise that had become absolutely necessary. The bailiff standing at the back opened the door for him, and Raphael went on out.
The two young women who had been in the courtroom were waiting for him in the hall. “Mr. Taylor,” the blond one said, “we’re from the department of—”
“I know who you are.” Raphael looked directly into the face of the enemy.
“We’d like to talk to you for a moment, if you’re not too busy,” she went on, undeterred by his blunt answer.
“I am, but I don’t imagine that’ll make much difference, will it?”
“Really, Mr. Taylor,” the brunette one protested, “you seem extremely hostile.” “You’ve noticed.”
“Mr. Taylor,” the blonde said, “you really should leave social theory to the experts, you know. This notion of yours—it just isn’t consistent with what we know about human behavior.”
“Really? Maybe you’d better go back and take another look then.”
“Why are you so hostile, Mr. Taylor?” the brunette asked. She kept coming back to that.
“I’m bad-tempered. Didn’t you study that in school? All of us freaks have days when we’re bad-tempered. You’re supposed to know how to deal with that.”
He could see their anger, their frustration in their eyes under the carefully assumed professional masks. His testimony had rather neatly torpedoed their entire case, and they were furious with him. He’d done the one thing Frankie had warned him not to do.
“I’d really like to discuss this theory of yours,” the blond one said with a contrived look of interest on her face.
“Oh really?” Raphael was very alert now. He knew that he was on dangerous ground.
“And you really ought to try to control your hostilities,” the brunette added.
“Why? Nobody else does. Could it be that you think I should control my hostility because I’m a defective and defectives aren’t permitted to dislike people?”
“We’d really like to talk to you, Mr. Taylor,” the blonde said. “Could we make an appointment for you at our office—say next Tuesday?”
“No. Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do.”
“We really think we could help you, Mr. Taylor,” the brunette said, her eyes hardening.
“I don’t need any help,” Raphael told her. “There’s not one single thing I need you for.”
“Everybody needs help, Mr. Taylor,” the blonde said.
“I don’t. Now, you’ll have to excuse me.” He set the points of his crutches down firmly and began to walk down the hallway toward a waiting elevator.
“We’ll always be there,” the blonde called after him. “Don’t hesitate to call—anytime at all.”
She sounded almost like old Tobe. That made Raphael feel better somehow. He was almost safe now—close enough to safety at any rate to take the risk. “If you girls really want to help, you ought to learn how to type,” he threw back over his shoulder. Flood would have liked that.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” the blonde demanded.
“It’s a sort of an inside joke,” he replied. “It’d take much too long to explain.” He stepped into the elevator.
“You’ll call,” the brunette yelled after him in a shrill voice. “Someday you’ll call. Someday you’ll need our help. Your kind always does.”
He might have answered that, but the elevator door closed just then.
It was good to have it all over. In a very personal way he had put Flood finally to rest, and now it was over.
It was just before noon when he came out of the courthouse, and the autumn sun was bright and warm. He went down the several steps to the sidewalk and started up toward the intersection, moving along beside the low retaining wall.
At the comer the bald, skinny philosopher was delivering one of his speeches to the indifferent street. Although Flood had reported seeing him in various parts of town, Raphael had not really been certain in his own mind that the crazy orator who had greeted him on that first snowy night in Spokane was still roaming the streets, or if he had ever really existed at all.
“Whenever anything is done with one intention,” the orator boomed, “but something else, other than what was intended, results from certain causes, that is called chance. We may therefore define chance as an unexpected result from the coincidence of certain causes in matters where there was another purpose.”
Raphael stopped and leaned back, half sitting on the low retaining wall to listen. He leaned his crutches against the wall on either side of his single leg and crossed his arms.
“The order of the universe,” the bald man went on, “advancing with its inevitable sequences, brings about this coincidence of causes. This order itself emanates from its source, which is Providence, and disposes all things in their proper time and place.”
Raphael found himself smiling suddenly. Without knowing exactly why, he uncrossed his arms and began to applaud, the sound of his clapping hands quite loud in the momentarily quiet street.
Startled, the crazy man jerked his head around to regard his audience of one. And then he grinned. There was in that grin all the rueful acknowledgment of human failure, of lives futi
le and wasted, and at the same time a sly, almost puckish delight in all the joy that even the most useless life contained. It was a cosmic kind of grin, and Raphael found its sly, mischievous twinkle somehow contagious.
Still applauding, he grinned back.
And then, that impish smile still on his face, the crazy man extended one arm to the side with exaggerated formality, placed his other hand on his chest, and took a florid, theatrical bow. His face was a sly mask when he came erect again, and he looked directly at Raphael and gave him a knowing wink before he turned back to continue his oration to the swiftly moving traffic.
About the Author
David Eddings was born in Spokane, Washington, in 1931 and grew up near Seattle. He graduated from the University of Washington and went on to serve in the US Army. Subsequently he worked as a buyer for the Boeing Company and taught college-level English. His first novel, High Hunt, was a contemporary adventure, but he soon began a spectacular career as a fantasy writer with his bestselling series The Belgariad. He consolidated his success with two further popular series, The Malloreon and The Elenium. He has recently published Domes of Fire, the first book in a new series, The Tamuli.
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By David Eddings
THE BELGARIAD
Book One: Pawn of Prophecy
Book Two: Queen of Sorcery
Book Three: Magician’s Gambit
Book Four: Castle of Wizardry
Book Five: Enchanters’ End Game
THE MALLOREON
Book One: Guardians of the West
Book Two: King of the Murgos
Book Three: Demon Lord of Karanda
Book Four: Sorceress of Darshiva
Book Five: The Seeress of Kell
THE ELENIUM
Book One: The Diamond Throne
Book Two: The Ruby Knight
Book Three: The Sapphire Rose
THE TAMULI
Book One: Domes of Fire
High Hunt
The Losers
Copyright
An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers,
77-85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
Published by Grafton 1993
987654321
Published simultaneously in hardback
by HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in the USA by
Ballantine Books 1992
Copyright © David Eddings 1992
The Author asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
ISBN 0 586 21759 2
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EPub Edition © SEPTEMBR 2006 ISBN: 978-0-007-39561-3
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David Eddings, The Losers
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