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"Where did you find the vehicle?"
"There's a few of them parked on the outskirts. They'll be in them soon enough, and after us."
"The sooner we're in the city the better, then."
"I don't think we'd be safe there for long," the mystif replied.
It had maneuvered the vehicle so that its snub nose faced the highway. The choice lay before them. Left, to the gates of Patashoqua. Right, down a highway which ran on past the Mount of Lipper Bayak to a horizon that rose, at the farthest limit of the eye, to a mountain range.
"It's up to you," Pie said.
Gentle looked longingly towards the city, tempted by its spires. But he knew there was wisdom in Pie's advice.
"We'll come back someday, won't we?" he said.
"Certainly, if that's what you want."
"Then let's head the other way."
The mystif turned the vehicle onto the highway, against the predominant flow of traffic, and with the city behind them they soon picked up speed.
"So much for Patashoqua," Gentle said as the walls became a mirage.
"No great loss," Pie remarked.
"But I wanted to see the Merrow Ti' TV," Gentle said.
"No chance," Pie returned.
"Why?"
"It was pure invention," Pie said. "Like all my favorite things, including myself. Pure invention!"
19
Though Jude had made an oath, in all sobriety, to follow Gentle wherever she'd seen him go, her plans for pursuit were stymied by a number of claims upon her energies, the most pressing of which was Clem's. He needed her advice, comfort, and organizational skills in the dreary, rainy days that followed New Year, and despite the urgency of her agenda she could scarcely turn her back on him. Taylor's funeral took place on January ninth, with a memorial service which Clem took great pains to perfect. It was a melancholy triumph: a time for Taylor's friends and relations to mingle and express their affections for the departed man. Jude met people she'd not seen in many years, and few, if any, failed to comment on the one conspicuous absentee: Gentle. She told everybody what she'd told Clem. That Gentle had been going through a bad time, and the last she'd heard he was pla
But the subject would keep coming up, one way or another. Sorting through Taylor's belongings after the funeral, Clem came upon three watercolors, painted by Gentle in the style of Samuel Palmer, but signed with his own name and dedicated to Taylor. Pictures of idealized landscapes, they couldn't help but turn Clem's thoughts back to Taylor's unrequited love for the vanished man, and Jude's to the place he had vanished for. They were among the few items that Clem, perhaps vengefully, wanted to destroy, but Jude persuaded him otherwise. He kept one in memory of Taylor, gave one to Klein, and gave the third to Jude.
Her duty to Clem not only took its toll upon her time but upon her focus. When, in the middle of the month, he suddenly a
"You haven't met Estabrook," she told Skin. "But I'll guarantee you won't like him. He tried to have me killed, you know?"
The dog looked up from its toilet.
"Yes, I was amazed too," she said, "I mean, that's worse than an animal, right? No disrespect, but it is. I was his wife. I am his wife. And he tried to have me killed. What would you do, if you were me? Yes, I know, I should see him. He had the blue eye in his safe. And that book! Remind me to tell you about the book sometime. No, maybe I shouldn't. It'll give you ideas."
Skin settled his head on his crossed paws, gave a small sigh of contentment, and started to doze.
"You're a big help," she said. "I need some advice here. What do you say to a man who tried to have you murdered?"
Skin's eyes were closed, so she was obliged to furnish her own reply.
"I say: Hello, Charlie, why don't you tell me the story of your life?"
She called Lewis Leader the next day to find out whether Estabrook was still hospitalized. She was told he was, but that he'd been moved to a private clinic in Hampstead. Leader supplied details of his whereabouts, and Jude called to inquire both about Estabrook's condition and visiting hours. She was told he was still under close scrutiny but seemed to be in better spirits than he'd been, and she was welcome to come and see him at any time. There seemed little purpose in delaying the meeting. She drove up to Hampstead that very evening, through another tumultuous rainstorm, arriving to a welcome from the psychiatric nurse in charge of Estabrook's case, a chatty young man called Maurice who lost his top lip when he smiled, which was often, and talked with an almost indiscreet enthusiasm about the state of his patient's mind.
"He has good days," Maurice said brightly. Then, just as brightly: "But not many. He's severely depressed. He made one attempt to kill himself before he came to us, but he's settled down a lot."
"Is he sedated?"
"We help keep the anxiety controllable, but he's not drugged senseless. We can't help him get to the root of the problem if he is."
"Has he told you what that is?" she said, expecting accusations to be tossed in her direction.
"It's pretty obscure," Maurice said. "He talks about you very fondly, and I'm sure your coming will do him a great deal of good. But the problem's obviously with his blood relatives. I've got him to talk a little about his father and his brother, but he's very cagey. The father's dead, of course, but maybe you can shed some light on the brother."-"I never met him."
"That's a pity. Charles clearly feels a great deal of anger towards his brother, but I haven't got to the root of why. I will. It'll just take time. He's very good at keeping his secrets to himself, isn't he? But then you probably know that. Shall I take you along to see him? I did tell him you'd telephoned, so I think he's expecting you."Jude was irritated that the element of surprise had been removed, that Estabrook would have had time to prepare his feints and fabrications. But what was done was done, and rather than snap at the gleeful Maurice for his indiscretion she kept her displeasure to herself. She might need the man's smiling assistance in the fullness of time.