Read Alan E. Nourse - The Fourth Horseman for Free Online
Authors: Alan Edward Nourse
doctor's tired eyes met his straight on. "I don't think you do, Frank, believe me. Not really."
"I've got to."
The doctor walked over to one of the drawers in the wall and drew it out full length. He pulled down the gray plastic cover and turned his back. A long moment later Frank turned away too, his face as gray as the plastic. "Those welts."
"She may have taken a fall in the rocks. We don't know."
"She walked on rocks like a goat."
Doc shrugged. "Just lying dead on the hard ground can leave welts on the skin, Frank."
"All over her body?" Frank turned to the man. "Okay," he said finally. "You're writing your report in there? Will you do me a favor and run off a copy for me? Just—unofficially?"
"Sure, Frank. I know she was somebody special." Doc looked at him closely. "Where are you going now?"
"Home."
"Do you want a sedative? A little Valium?"
"No, thanks. I've got a real great sedative at home."
Frank Barrington drove back slowly to Leavenworth in his beat-up old pickup, his mind twisting, for the first time beginning to grasp the horrible enormity of what had happened. Pneumonia. Maybe took a fall on the rocks. Worked over with a ball bat. Lying dead on the hard ground. And all this in less than forty-eight hours.
It was all nonsense. There was something else, something else altogether. Something more vicious than any of that.
Frank Barrington walked into the hot little second-floor apartment about two in the afternoon, exhausted and drained. The blow had hit him too hard, too suddenly, too unbelievably to cope with it adequately; he had to back off and give his mind lime to adjust. Stop thinking for a while. He went into the kitchen, poured half a glass of whiskey and drank it neat, then poured more over some ice and sat down in the deep chair in the living room. He seldom drank much, ordinarily; he liked to have his head and body working right, but this was something different.
He looked around at the little place, with so much of her about it, as if she were just in the next room. He could hear her banging pots out in the little kitchen alcove, swearing at the secondhand electric stove that wouldn't heat till she turned it up high, lighting candles on the table for romantic glow over a scorched gourmet dinner, handing him the pot if he dared to say a word. Sometimes bold in bed, sometimes like a frightened doe, guarding herself, hesitating, undecided whether to stand fast or bolt. The only woman in his life that he had ever totally, desperately, hopelessly loved, and now gone. In forty-eight short hours.
Surrounded by ghosts and bitterness, feeling the whiskey bite, he nodded in the chair, cjozed off. When he started awake later it was almost dark and the phone was ringing. It was the Super. "Are you okay, Frank?"
"I'll make it. Thanks."
"Why don't you just bag it tomorrow, get your feet back under you? Larry can finish the mop-up on Rattlesnake. I can always give you a call if something bad breaks loose."
If something bad breaks loose! "I think I'll do that," Frank said. "Thanks again."
"Well, I just wanted to check," the Super said. "Doc was going to bring you a copy of his report on his way out to his ranch, but he's not feeling very good, so he's staying in town. Matter of fact Barney Block, one of the trail crew that went up in the chopper, isn't feeling so hot either. That must have been quite a shock."
Yeah. Quite a shock. Frank muttered something appropriate and hung up the phone. Quite one hell of a shock. He sat back in the chair, pushed the stale whiskey and water aside. Then, in the dying light, his eyes fell on Pam's green backpack propped against the wall. Beside it was a rolled-up tent with an aluminum support sticking out.
. He threw all the lights on, pulled out the tent and unrolled it. He wrinkled his nose and stepped back—it smelled like a dead rat. Inside it the walls and floor were stained and smeared with stiff, brownish stuff. Holding his head aside, Frank grabbed it all
"I've got to."
The doctor walked over to one of the drawers in the wall and drew it out full length. He pulled down the gray plastic cover and turned his back. A long moment later Frank turned away too, his face as gray as the plastic. "Those welts."
"She may have taken a fall in the rocks. We don't know."
"She walked on rocks like a goat."
Doc shrugged. "Just lying dead on the hard ground can leave welts on the skin, Frank."
"All over her body?" Frank turned to the man. "Okay," he said finally. "You're writing your report in there? Will you do me a favor and run off a copy for me? Just—unofficially?"
"Sure, Frank. I know she was somebody special." Doc looked at him closely. "Where are you going now?"
"Home."
"Do you want a sedative? A little Valium?"
"No, thanks. I've got a real great sedative at home."
Frank Barrington drove back slowly to Leavenworth in his beat-up old pickup, his mind twisting, for the first time beginning to grasp the horrible enormity of what had happened. Pneumonia. Maybe took a fall on the rocks. Worked over with a ball bat. Lying dead on the hard ground. And all this in less than forty-eight hours.
It was all nonsense. There was something else, something else altogether. Something more vicious than any of that.
Frank Barrington walked into the hot little second-floor apartment about two in the afternoon, exhausted and drained. The blow had hit him too hard, too suddenly, too unbelievably to cope with it adequately; he had to back off and give his mind lime to adjust. Stop thinking for a while. He went into the kitchen, poured half a glass of whiskey and drank it neat, then poured more over some ice and sat down in the deep chair in the living room. He seldom drank much, ordinarily; he liked to have his head and body working right, but this was something different.
He looked around at the little place, with so much of her about it, as if she were just in the next room. He could hear her banging pots out in the little kitchen alcove, swearing at the secondhand electric stove that wouldn't heat till she turned it up high, lighting candles on the table for romantic glow over a scorched gourmet dinner, handing him the pot if he dared to say a word. Sometimes bold in bed, sometimes like a frightened doe, guarding herself, hesitating, undecided whether to stand fast or bolt. The only woman in his life that he had ever totally, desperately, hopelessly loved, and now gone. In forty-eight short hours.
Surrounded by ghosts and bitterness, feeling the whiskey bite, he nodded in the chair, cjozed off. When he started awake later it was almost dark and the phone was ringing. It was the Super. "Are you okay, Frank?"
"I'll make it. Thanks."
"Why don't you just bag it tomorrow, get your feet back under you? Larry can finish the mop-up on Rattlesnake. I can always give you a call if something bad breaks loose."
If something bad breaks loose! "I think I'll do that," Frank said. "Thanks again."
"Well, I just wanted to check," the Super said. "Doc was going to bring you a copy of his report on his way out to his ranch, but he's not feeling very good, so he's staying in town. Matter of fact Barney Block, one of the trail crew that went up in the chopper, isn't feeling so hot either. That must have been quite a shock."
Yeah. Quite a shock. Frank muttered something appropriate and hung up the phone. Quite one hell of a shock. He sat back in the chair, pushed the stale whiskey and water aside. Then, in the dying light, his eyes fell on Pam's green backpack propped against the wall. Beside it was a rolled-up tent with an aluminum support sticking out.
. He threw all the lights on, pulled out the tent and unrolled it. He wrinkled his nose and stepped back—it smelled like a dead rat. Inside it the walls and floor were stained and smeared with stiff, brownish stuff. Holding his head aside, Frank grabbed it all