Sign of the Unicorn
Chapter 8

    Out of every life a little blood must spill. Unfortunately, it was my turn again, and it felt like more than a little. I was lying, doubled up, on my right side, both arms clutching at my middle. I was wet, and every now and then something trickled along the creases of my belly. Front, lower left, just above the beltline, I felt like a casually opened envelope. These were my first sensations as consciousness came around again. And my first thought was, "What is he waiting for?" Obviously, the coup de grace had been withheld. Why?
    I opened my eyes. They had taken advantage of whatever time had elapsed to adjust themselves to the darkness. I turned my head. I did not see anyone else in the room with me. But something peculiar had occurred and I could not quite place it. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back to the mattress once more. Something was wrong, yet at the same time right. . . .
    The mattress . . . Yes, I was lying on my bed. I doubted my ability to have gotten there unassisted. But it would be absurd to knife me and them help me to bed.
    My bed. . . It was my bed, yet it was not.
    I squeezed my eyes tight. I gritted my teeth. I did not understand. I knew that my thinking could not be normal there on the fringes of shock, my blood pooling in my guts and then leaking out. I tried to force myself to think clearly. It was not easy.
    My bed. Before you are fully aware of anything else, you are aware whether you are awakening in your own bed. And I was, but-
    I fought down an enormous impulse to sneeze, because I felt it would tear me apart. I compressed my nostrils and breathed in short gasps through my mouth. The taste, smell and feel of dust was all about me.
    The nasal assault subsided and I opened my eyes. I knew then where I was. I did not understand the why and how of it, but I had come once more to a place I had never expected to see again. I lowered my right hand, used it to raise myself.
    It was my bedrom in my house. The old one. The place which had been mine back when I was Carl Corey. I had been returned to Shadow, to that world heavy with dust. The bed had not been made up since the last time I had slept in it, over half a decade before. I knew the state of the house fully, having looked in on it only a few weeks earlier.
    I pushed myself further, managed to slide my feet out over the edge of the bed and down. Then I doubled up again and sat there. It was bad.
    While I felt temporarily safe from further assault, I knew that I required more than safety just then. I had to have help, and I was in no position to help myself. I was not even certain how much longer I might remain conscious. So I had to get down and get out. The phone would be dead, the nearest house was not too close by. I would have to get down to the road, at least. I reflected grimly that one of my reasons for locating where I had was that it was not a well-traveled road. I enjoy my solitude, at least some of the time.
    With my right hand I drew up the nearest pillow and slipped off its case. I turned it inside out, tried to fold it, gave up, wadded it, slipped it beneath my shirt, and pressed it against my wound. Then I sat there, just holding it in place. It had been a major exertion and I found it painful to take too deep a breath.
    After a time, though, I drew the second pillow to me, held it across my knees and let it slip out of its case.
    I wanted the pillowslip to wave at a passing motorist, for my garments, as usual, were dark. Before I could draw it through my belt, though, I was confounded by the behavior of the pillow itself. It had not yet reached the floor. I had released it, nothing was supporting it, and it was moving. But it was moving quite slowly, descending with a dreamlike deliberation.
    I thought of the fall of the key as I had dropped it outside my room. I thought of my unintended quickness on mounting the stair with Random. I thought of Fiona's words and of the Jewel of Judgment, which still hung about my neck now pulsating in time with the throbbing of my side. It might have saved my life, at least for the moment; yes, it probably had, if Fiona's notions were correct. It had probably given me a moment or so more than would otherwise have been my due when the assailant struck, letting me turn, letting me swing my arm. It might, somehow, even have been responsible for my sudden transportation. But I would have to think about such things at another time, should I succeed in maintaining a meaningful relationship with the future. For now, the jewel had to go-in case Fiona's fears concerning it were also correct-and I had to get moving.
    I tucked away the second pillow cover, then tried to stand, holding on to the footboard. No good! Dizziness and too much pain. I lowered myself to the floor, afraid of passing out on the way down. I made it. I rested. Then I began to move, a slow crawl.
    The front door, as I recalled, was now nailed shut. All right. Out the back, then.
    I made it to the bedroom and halted, leaning against its frame. As I rested there I removed the Jewel of Judgment from my neck and wrapped its chain about my wrist. I had to cache it someplace, and the safe in my study was too far out of the way. Besides, I believed that I was leaving a trail of blood. Anyone finding and following it might well be curious enough to investigate and spring the small thing. And I lacked the time and the energy. . . .
    I made my way out, around, and through. I had to rise and exert myself to get the back door open. I made the mistake of not resting first.
    When I regained consciousness, I was lying across the threshold. The night was raw and clouds filled much of the sky. A mean wind rattled branches above the patio. I felt several drops of moisture on the back of my outflung hand.
    I pushed up and crawled out. The snow was about two inches deep. The icy air helped to revive me. With something near panic, I realized just how foggy my mind had been during much of my course from the bedroom. It was possible that I might go under at any time.
    I started immediately for the far corner of the house, deviating only to reach the compost heap, tear my way into it, drop the jewel, and reposition the clump of dead grasses I had broken loose. I brushed snow over it and continued on.
    Once I made it about the corner, I was shielded from the wind and headed down a slight incline. I reached the front of the house and rested once more. A car had just passed and I watched its taillights dwindle. It was the only vehicle in sight.
    Icy crystals stung my face as I moved again. My knees were wet and burning cold. The front yard sloped, gently at first, then dropped sharply toward the road. There was a dip about a hundred yards to the right, where motorists generally hit their brakes. It seemed that this might give me a few moments more in the headlights of anyone coming from that direction-one of those small assurances the mind always seeks when things get serious, an aspirin for the emotions. With three rest stops, I made it down to the roadside, then over to the big rock that bore my house number. I sat on it and leaned back against the icy embankment. I hauled out the second pillow case and draped it across my knees.
    I waited. I knew that my mind was fuzzy. I believe that I drifted into and out of consciousness a number of times. Whenever I caught myself at it, I attempted to impose some version of order on my thoughts, to assess what had happened in the light of everything else that had just happened, to seek other safety measures. The former effort proved too much, however. It was simply too difficult to think beyond the level of responding to circumstance. With a sort of numb enlightenment, though, it occurred to me that I was still in possession of my Trumps. I could contact someone in Amber, have him transport me back.
    But who? I was not so far gone that I failed to realize I might be contacting the one responsible for my condition. Would it be better to gamble that way, or to take my chances here? Still, Random or Gerard-I thought that I heard a car. Faint, distant . . . The wind and my pulsebeat were competing wth perception, though. I turned my head. I concentrated.
    There . . . Again. Yes. It was an engine. I got ready to wave the cloth.
    Even then, my mind kept straying. And one thought that flitted through was that I might already be unable to muster sufficient concentration to manipulate the Trumps.
    The sound grew louder. I raised the cloth. Moments later, the farthest visible point along the road to my right was touched with light. Shortly after, I saw the car at the top of the rise. I lost sight of it once more as it descended the hill. Then it climbed again and came on, snowflakes flashing through its headbeams.
    I began waving as it approached the dip. The lights caught me as it came up out of it, and the driver could not have missed seeing me. He went by, though, a man in a late model sedan, a woman in the passenger seat. The woman turned and looked at me, but the driver did not even slow down.
    A couple of minutes later another car came by, a bit older, a woman driving, no visible passengers. It did slow down, but only for a moment. She must not have liked my looks. She stepped on the gas and was gone in an instant.
    I sagged back and rested. A prince of Amber can hardly invoke the brotherhood of man for purposes of moral condemnation. At least not with a straight face, and it hurt too much to laugh just then.
    Without strength, concentration, and some ability to move, my power over Shadow was useless. I would use it first, I decided, to get to some warm place. . . . I wondered whether I could make it back up the hill, to the compost heap. I had not thought of trying to use the jewel to alter the weather. Probably I was too weak for that too, though. Probably the effort would kill me. Still...
    I shook my head. I was drifting off, more than half a dream. I had to stay awake. Was that another car? Maybe. I tried to raise the cloth and dropped it. When I leaned forward to retrieve it, I just had to rest my head on my knees for a moment. Deirdre . . . I would call my dear sister. If anyone would help me, Deirdre would. I would get out her Trump and call her. In a minute. If only she weren't my sister . . . I had to rest. I am a knave, not a fool. Perhaps, sometimes, when I rest, I am even sorry for things. Some things. If only it were warmer . . . But it wasn't too bad, bent over this way . . . Was that a car? I wanted to raise my head but found that I could not. It would not make that much difference in being seen, though, I decided.
    I felt light on my eyelids and I heard the engine. Now it was neither advancing nor retreating. Just a steady cycling of growls. Then I heard a shout. Then the click-pause-chunk of a car door opening and closing. I felt that I could open my eyes but I did not want to. I was afraid that I would look only on the dark and empty road, that the sounds would resolve into pulsebeats and wind once more. It was better to keep what I had than to gamble.
    "Hey! What's the matter? You hurt?"
    Footsteps. . . This was real.
    I opened my eyes. I forced myself up once again.
    "Corey! My God! It's you!"
    I forced a grin, cut my nod short of a topple.
    "It's me. Bill. How've you been?"
    "What happened?"
    "I'm hurt," I said. "Maybe bad. Need a doctor."
    "Can you walk if I help? Or should I carry you?"
    "Let's try walking," I said.
    He got me to my feet and I leaned on him. We started for his car. I only remember the first few steps.

    When that low-swinging sweet chariot turned sour and swung high once more, I tried to raise my arm, realized that it was restrained, settled for a consideration of the tube affixed thereto, and decided that I was going to live. I had sniffed hospital smells and consulted my internal clock. Having made it this far, I felt that I owed it to myself to continue. And I was warm, and as comfortable as recent history allowed. That settled, I closed my eyes, lowered my head, and went back to sleep.
    Later, when I came around again, felt more fit and was spotted by a nurse, she told me that it was seven hours since I had been brought in and that a doctor would be by to talk with me shortly. She also got me a glass of water and told me that it had stopped snowing. She was curious as to what had happened to me.
    I decided that it was time to start plotting my story. The simpler the better. All right. I was coming home after an extended stay abroad. I had hitchhiked out, gone on in, and been attacked by some vandal or drifter I had surprised inside. I crawled back out and sought help. Finis.
    When I told it to the doctor I could not tell at first whether he believed me. He was a heavy man whose face had sagged and set long ago. His name was Bailey, Morris Bailey, and he nodded as I spoke and then asked me, "Did you get a look at the fellow?"
    I shook my head. 
    "It was dark," I said. 
    "Did he rob you too?" 
    "I don't know." 
    "Were you carrying a wallet?" 
    I decided I had better say yes to that one.
    "Well, you didn't have it when you came in here, so he must have taken it." 
    "Must have," I agreed.
    "Do you remember me at all?" 
    "Can't say that I do. Should I?"
    "You seemed vaguely familiar to me when they brought you in. That was all, at first. . ."
    "And.. . ?" I asked.
    "What sort of garments were you wearing? They seemed something like a uniform."
    "Latest thing. Over There, these days. You were saying that I looked familiar?"
    "Yes," he agreed. "Where is Over There, anyway? Where did you come from? Where have you been?" 
    "I travel a lot," I said. "You were going to tell me something a moment ago."
    "Yes," he said. "We are a small clinic, and some time ago a fast-talking salesman persuaded the directors to invest in a computerized medical-records system. If the area had developed more and we had expanded a lot, it might have been worthwhile. Neither of these things happened, though, and it is an expensive item. It even encouraged a certain laziness among the clerical help. Old files just don't get purged the way they used to, even for the emergency room. Space there for a lot of useless backlog. So, when Mr. Roth gave me your name and I ran a routine check on you, I found something and I realized why you looked familiar. I had been working the emergency room that night too, around seven years ago, when you had your auto accident. I remembered working on you then-and how I thought you weren't going to make it. You surprised me, though, and you still do. I can't even find the scars that should be there. You did a nice job of healing up." 
    "Thanks. A tribute to the physician. I'd say." 
    "May I have your age, for the record?"
    "Thirty-six," I said. That's always safe.
    He jotted it somewhere in the folder he held across his knees.
    "You know, I would have sworn-once I got to checking you over and remembering-that that's about what you looked the last time I saw you." 
    "Clean living." 
    "Do you know about your blood type?"
    "It's an exotic. But you can treat it as an AB positive for all practical purposes. I can take anything, but don't give mine to anybody else." 
    He nodded.
    "The nature of your mishap is going to require a police report, you know." 
    "I had guessed that."
    "Just thought you might want to be thinking about it."
    "Thanks," I said. 
    "So you were on duty that night, and you patched me up? Interesting. What else do you recall about it?" 
    "What do you mean?"
    "The circumstances under which I was brought in that time. My own memory is a blank from right before the accident until some time after I had been transferred up to the other place-Greenwood. Do you recall how I arrived?"
    He frowned, just when I had decided he had one face for all occasions.
    "We sent an ambulance," he said.
    "In response to what? Who reported the accident? How?"
    "I see what you mean," he said. "It was the State Patrol that called for the ambulance. As I recollect, someone had seen the accident and phoned their headquarters. They then radioed a car in the vicinity. It went to the lake, verified the report, gave you first aid, and called for the ambulance. And that was it." 
    "Any record of who called in the report in the first place?" 
    He shrugged.
    "That's not the sort of thing we keep track of," he said.  "Didn't your insurance company investigate? Wasn't there a claim? They could probably-" 
    "I had to leave the country right after I recovered," I said. "I never pursued the matter. I suppose there would have been a police report, though."
    "Surely. But I have no idea how long they keep them around." He chuckled. "Unless, of course, that same salesman got to them, too. . . . It is rather late to be talking about that though, isn't it? It seems to me there is a statute of limitations on things of that sort. Your friend Roth will tell you for sure-"
    "It isn't a claim that I have in mind," I said. "Just a desire to know what really happened. I have wondered about it on and off for a number of years now. You see, I have this touch of retrograde amnesia going." 
    "Have you ever talked it over with a psychiatrist?" he said, and there was something about the way he said it that I did not like. Came one of those little flashes of insight then: Could Flora have managed to get me certified insane before my transfer to Greenwood? Was that on my record here? And was I still on escape status from that place? A lot of time had passed and I knew nothing of the legalities involved. If this was indeed the case, however, I imagined they would have no way of knowing whether I had been certified sane again in some other jurisdiction. Prudence, I guess it was, cautioned me to lean forward and glance at the doctor's wrist. I seemed possessed of a subliminal memory that he had consulted a calendar watch when taking my pulse. Yes, he had, I squinted. All right. Day and month: November 28. I did a quick calculation with my two-and-a-half-to-one conversion and had the year. It was seven, as he had indicated.
    "No, I haven't," I said. "I just assumed it was organic rather than functional and wrote the time off as a loss." 
    "I see," he said. "You use such phrases rather glibly. People who've been in therapy sometimes do that." 
    "I know," I said. "I've read a lot about it." 
    He sighed. He stood.
    "Look," he said. "I am going to call Mr. Roth and let him know you are awake. It is probably best." 
    "What do you mean by that?"
    "I mean that with your friend being an attorney, there might be things you want to discuss with him before you talk to the police."
    He opened the folder wherein he had somewhere jotted my age, raised his pen, furrowed his brow, and said, "What's the date, anyway?"

    I wanted my Trumps. I imagined my belongings would be in the drawer of the bedside table, but getting at it involved too much twisting and I did not want to put the strain on my sutures. It was not all that urgent, though. Eight hours' sleep in Amber would come to around twenty hours here, so everyone should still have been respectably retired back home. I wanted to get hold of Random, though, to come up with some sort of cover story for my not being there in the morning. Later.
    I did not want to look suspicious at a time like this. Also, I wanted to know immediately whatever Brand had to say. I wanted to be in a position to act on it. I did a quick bit of mental juggling. If I could do the worst of my recovering here in Shadow, it would mean less wasted time for me back in Amber. I would have to budget my time carefully and avoid complications on this end. I hoped that Bill would arrive soon. I was anxious to know what the picture was in this place.
    Bill was a native of the area, had gone to school in Buffalo, come back, married, joined the family firm, and that was that. He had known me as a retired Army officer who sometimes traveled on vague business. We both belonged to the country club, which was where I had met him. I had known him for over a year without our exchanging more than a few words. Then one evening I happened to be next to him in the bar and it had somehow come out that he was hot on military history, particularly the Napoleonic Wars. The next thing we knew, they were closing up the place around us. We were close friends from then on, right up until the time of my difficulties. I had occasionally wondered about him since. In fact, the only thing that had prevented me from seeing him the last time I had passed through was that he would doubtless have had all sorts of questions as to what had become of me, and I had had too many things on my mind to deal with them all that gracefully and still enjoy myself. I had even thought once or twice of coming back and seeing him if I could, when everything was finally settled in Amber. Next to the fact that this was not the case, I regretted not being able to meet him in the club lounge.
    He arrived within the hour, short, heavy, ruddy, a bit grayer on the sides, grinning, nodding. I had propped myself up by then, already tried a few deep breaths and decided they were premature. He clasped my hand and took the bedside chair. He had his briefcase with him.
    "You scared the hell out of me last night, Carl. Thought I was seeing a ghost," he said. 
    I nodded.
    "A bit later, and I might have been one," I said. "Thanks. How have you been?" 
    Bill sighed.
    "Busy. You know. The same old stuff, only more of it." 
    "And Alice?"
    "She's fine. And we've got two new grandsons-Bill Jr.'s-twins. Wait a minute." He fished out his wallet and located a photo. "Here." 
    I studied it, noted the family resemblances. 
    "Hard to believe," I said.
    "You don't look much worse for the years." I chuckled and patted my abdomen.
    "Subtracting that, I mean," he said. "Where have you been?"
    "God! Where haven't I been!" I said. "So many places I've lost count."
    He remained expressionless, caught my eyes and stared.
    "Carl, what kind of trouble are you in?" be asked.
    I smiled.
    "If you mean am I in trouble with the law, the answer is no. My troubles actually involve another country, and I am going to have to go back there shortly." 
    His face relaxed again, and there was a small glint behind his bifocals.
    "Are you some sort of military adviser in that place?" 
    I nodded.
    "Can you tell me where?" 
    I shook my head. "Sorry."
    "That I can sort of understand," he said. "Dr. Roth told me what you said had happened last night. Off the record now, was it connected with whatever you have been doing?" 
    I nodded again.
    "That makes things a little clearer," he said. "Not much, but enough. I won't even ask you which agency, or even if there is one. I have always known you to be a gentleman, and a rational one at that. That was why I grew curious at the time of your disappearance and did some investigating. I felt a bit officious and self-conscious about it. But your civil status was quite puzzling, and I wanted to know what had happened. Mainly, because I was concerned about you. I hope that doesn't disturb you."
    "Disturb me?" I said. "There aren't that many people who care what happens to me. I'm grateful. Also, curious what you discovered. I never had the time to look into it, you know, to straighten things out. How about telling me what you learned?"
    He opened the briefcase and withdrew a manila folder. Spreading it across his knees, he shuffled out several sheets of yellow paper covered with neat handwriting. Raising the first of these, he regarded it a moment, then said, "After you escaped from the hospital in Albany and had your accident, Brandon apparently dropped out of the picture and-" 
    "Stop!" I said, raising my hand, trying to sit up. 
    "What?" he asked.
    "You have the order wrong, also the place," I said. "First came the accident, and Greenwood is not in Albany."
    "I know," he said. "I was referring to the Porter Sanitarium, where you spent two days and then escaped. You had your accident that same day, and you were brought here as a result of it. Then your sister Evelyn entered the picture. She had you transferred to Greenwood, where you spent a couple of weeks before departing on your own motion once again. Right?" 
    "Partly," I said. "Namely, the last part. As I was telling the doctor earlier, my memory is shot for a couple of days prior to the accident. This business about a place in Albany does sort of seem to ring a bell, but only very faintly. Do you have more on it?"
    "Oh yes," he said. "It may even have something to do with the state of your memory. You were committed on a bum order-" 
    "By whom?" He shook the paper and peered.
    "'Brother, Brandon Corey; attendant physician, Hillary B. Rand, psychiatrist," he read. "Hear any more bells?"
    "Quite possibly," I said. "Go ahead."
    "Well, an order got signed on that basis," he said. "You were duly certified, taken into custody, and transported. Then, concerning your memory . . ."
    "Yes?"
    "I don't know that much about the practice and its effects on the memory, but you were subjected to electroshock therapy while you were at Porter. Then, as I said, the recard indicates that you escaped after the second day. You apparently recovered your car from some unspecified locale and were heading back this way when you had the accident."
    "That seems right," I said. "It does." For a moment, when he had begun talking, I had had a wild vision of having been returned to the wrong shadow-one where everything was similar, but not congruent. Now, though, I did not believe this to be the case. I was responding to this story on some level.
    "Now, about that order," he said. "It was based on false evidence, but there was no way of the court's knowing it at the time. The real Dr. Rand was in England when everything happened, and when I contacted him later he had never heard of you. His office had been broken into while he was away, though. Also, peculiarly, his middle initial is not B. He had never heard of Brandon Corey either." 
    "What did become of Brandon?"
    "He simply vanished. Several attempts were made to contact him at the time of your escape from Porter, but he could not be found. Then you had the accident, were brought here and treated. At that time, a woman named Evelyn Flaumel, who represented herself as your sister, contacted this place, told them you had been probated and that the family wanted you transferred to Greenwood. In the absence of Brandon, who had been appointed your guardian, her instructions were followed, as the only available next of kin. That was how it came about that you were sent to the other place. You escaped again, a couple of weeks later, and that is where my chronology ends." 
    "Then what is my legal status right now?" I asked.
    "Oh, you've been made whole," he said. "Dr. Rand went down after I talked with him and gave the court an affidavit reciting these facts. The order was vacated."
    "Then why is the doctor here acting as if I might be a psycho case?"
    "Oh my! That is a thought. It hadn't occurred to me. All their records here would show is that one time you apparently were. I had better see him on the way out. I have a copy of the journal entry in here, too. I can show it to him."
    "How long was it after I left Greenwood that things were set right with the court?"
    "The following month," he said. "It was several weeks before I could bring myself to get nosy."
    "You couldn't know how happy I am that you did," I said. "And you have given me several pieces of information I think are going to prove extremely important."
    "It is nice to be able to help a friend sometime," he said, closing the folder and replacing it in his briefcase. "One thing . . . When this is all over-whatever you are doing-if you are permitted to talk about it, I would like to hear the story." 
    "I can't promise," I said.
    "I know. Just thought I'd mention it. By the way, what do you want to do about the house?" 
    "Mine? Do I still hold title to it?"
    "Yes, but it will probably be sold this year for back taxes if you don't do anything about it."
    "I'm surprised that hasn't already happened."
    "You gave the bank power of attorney for paying your bills."
    "I never thought of that. I'd just set it up for utilities and my charge accounts. Stuff like that."
    "Well, the account is nearly empty now," he said. "I was talking to McNally over there the other day. That means the house will go next year if you don't do anything."
    "I've got no use for it now," I said. "They can do whatever they want with it."
    "Then you might as well sell it and realize what you can."
    "I won't be around that long."
    "I could handle it for you. Send the money wherever you want."
    "All right," I said. "I'll sign anything necessary. Pay my hospital bill out of it and keep the rest." 
    "I couldn't do that." 
    I shrugged.
    "Do whatever you think best, but be sure and take a good fee." 
    "I'll put the balance in your account."
    "All right. Thanks. By the way, before I forget, would you look in the drawer of that table and see if there is a deck of cards there? I can't reach it yet, and I'll be wanting them later."
    "Surely." 
    He reached over, opened it.
    "A big brown envelope," he said. "Kind of bulgy. They probably put whatever was in your pockets in it." 
    "Open it."
    "Yes, here's a pack of cards," he said, reaching inside. 
    "Say! That's a beautiful case! May I?"
    "I-" What could I say?
    He slipped the case.
    "Lovely . . ." he murmured. "Some kind of tarots. . . Are they antique?"
    "Yes."
    "Cold as ice . . . I never saw anything like these. Say, that's you! Dressed up like some kind of knight! What's their purpose?"
    "A very complicated game," I said.
    "How could that be you if they are antique?"
    "I didn't say it was me. You did."
    "Yes, so I did. Ancestor?"
    "Sort of."
    "Now that's a good-looking gal! But so is the redhead. . . ."
    "I think. . ."
    He squared the deck and replaced it in the case. He passed it to me.
    "Nice unicorn, too," he added. "I shouldn't have looked at them, should I?"
    "That's all right."
    He sighed and leaned back in the chair, clasping his hands behind his head.
    "I couldn't help it," he said. "It is just that there is something very strange about you, Carl, beyond any hush-hush work you may be doing-and mysteries intrigue me. I've never been this close to a real puzzler before."
    "Because you just slipped yourself a cold deck of tarots?" I asked.
    "No, that just adds atmosphere," he said. "While what you have been doing all these years is admittedly none of my business, there is one recent incident I am unable to comprehend." 
    "What is that?"
    "After I brought you here and took Alice home last night, I went back to your place, hoping to get some sort of idea as to what had happened. The snow had let up by then, though it started in again later, and your track was still clearly visible, going around the house and down the front yard." I nodded.
    "But there were no tracks going in-nothing to indicate your arrival. And for that matter, there were no other tracks departing-nothing to show the flight of your assailant." 
    I chuckled.
    "You think the wound was self-inflicted?" 
    "No, of course not. There wasn't even a weapon in sight. I followed the bloodstains back to the bedroom, to your bed. I had only my flashlight to see by, of course, but what I saw gave me an eerie feeling. It seemed as if you had just suddenly appeared there on the bed, bleeding, and then gotten up and made your way out." 
    "Impossible, of course." 
    "I wonder about the lack of tracks, though."
    "The wind must have blown snow over them." 
    "And not the others?" He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. I just want to go on the record as interested in the answer to that one too, if you ever do want to tell me about things." 
    "I will remember," I said.
    "Yes," he said. "But I wonder . . . I've a peculiar feeling that I may never see you again. It is as if I were one of those minor characters in a melodrama who gets shuffled offstage without ever learning how things turn out."
    "I can appreciate the feeling," I said. "My own role sometimes makes me want to strangle the author. But look at it this way: inside stories seldom live up to one's expectations. Usually they are grubby little things, reducing down to the basest of motives when all is known. Conjectures and illusions are often the better possessions." 
    He smiled.
    "You talk the same as always," he said, "yet I have known occasions when you have been tempted to virtue. Several of them. . ."
    "How did we get from the footprints to me?" I said. "I was about to tell you that I suddenly recalled having approached the house by exactly the same route as I left it. My departure obviously obliterated the signs of my arrival."
    "Not bad," he said. "And your attacker followed the same route?" 
    "Must have."
    "Pretty good," he acknowledged. "You know how to raise a reasonable doubt. But I still feel that the preponderance of evidence indicates the weird." 
    "Weird? No. Peculiar, perhaps. A matter of interpretation."
    "Or semantics. Have you read the police report on your accident?" 
    "No. Have you?" 
    "Uh-huh. What if it was more than peculiar? Then will you grant me my word, as I used it: 'weird'?" 
    "Very well." 
    ". . . And answer one question?" 
    "I don't know. . . ." 
    "A simple yes-or-no question. That's all." 
    "Okay, it's a deal. What did it say?"
    "It said that they received report of the accident and a patrol car proceeded to the scene. There they encountered a strangely garbed man in the process of giving you first aid. He stated that he had pulled you from the wrecked car in the lake. This seemed believable in that he was also soaking wet. Average height, light build, red hair. He had on a green outfit that one of the officers said looked like something out of a Robin Hood movie. He refused to identify himself, to accompany them or to give a statement of any sort. When they insisted that he do so, he whistled and a white horse came trotting up. He leaped onto its back and rode off. He was not seen again." 
    I laughed. It hurt, but I couldn't help it.
    "I'll be damned!" I said. "Things are starting to make sense."
    Bill just stared at me for a moment. Then, "Really?" he said.
    "Yes, I think so. It may well have been worth getting stabbed and coming back for what I learned today." 
    "You put the two in peculiar order," he said, massaging his chin.
    "Yes, I do. But I am beginning to see some order where I had seen nothing before. This one may have been worth the price of admission, all unintended." 
    "All because of a guy on a white horse?"
    "Partly, partly . . . Bill, I am going to be leaving here soon." 
    "You are not going anywhere for a while." 
    "Just the same-those papers you mentioned . . . I think I had better get them signed today."
    "All right. I'll get them over this afternoon. But I don't want you doing anything foolish."
    "I grow more cautious by the moment," I said, "believe me."
    "I hope so," he said, snapping his briefcase shut and rising. "Well, get your rest. I'll clear things up with the doctor and have those papers sent over today." 
    "Thanks again." I shook his hand.
    "By the way," he said, "you did agree to answer a question." 
    "I did, didn't I? What is it?"
    "Are you human?" he asked, still gripping my hand, no special expression on his face.
    I started in on a grin, then threw it away.
    "I don't know. I-I like to think so. But I don't really-Of course I am! That's a silly . . . Oh hell! You really mean it, don't you? And I said I'd be honest. . . ." 
    I chewed my lip and thought for a moment. Then, "I don't think so," I said.
    "Neither do I," he said, and he smiled. "It doesn't make any real difference to me, but I thought it might to you-to know that someone knows you are different and doesn't care." 
    "I'll remember that, too," I said. 
    "Well. . . see you around." 
    "Right."