The Doctor, having seen the van out of sight, walked through the front yard to join us. “Life did not offer her many chances,” he said quietly, standing by us and looking out the open door. “But it was not life, finally, that took her last chance away. Left to her own devices, she might have escaped all that she’d known here, Stevie.” He put a hand to my head. “That knowledge must be foremost in your thoughts, in the days to come.”
Nodding again, I wiped at my face and tried to get myself pulled together; then a thought entered my head, one what’d been shoved aside by all the turmoil of Kat’s death. “What about Mr. Picton?” I asked. “Is he-?”
“Dead,” the Doctor answered, plainly but gently. “He died where we found him-the loss of blood was simply too great.”
I suddenly felt like the ground underneath me was just melting away. “Oh, God…” I moaned; then I slid down the wall to the floor, grabbing at my forehead with one hand and quietly crying again. “Why? What the hell is all this for …?”
The Doctor crouched down in front of me. “Stevie,” he said, his own eyes red around their black cores, “you grew up in a world where people robbed for money, killed for advantage or out of rage, assaulted to satisfy lust-a world where crime seemed to make some terrible sort of sense. And this woman’s actions seem very different to you. But they aren’t. It is all a result of perception. A man rapes because he sees no other way to satisfy an urgent, terrible need. Libby kills because she sees no other way to reach goals that are as vital to her as the very air she breathes, and were planted in her mind when she was too young to know what was taking place. She, like the rapist, is wrong, horrifically wrong, and it is our job-yours, mine, Sara’s, all of ours-to understand the perceptions that lead to such misbegotten actions, so that we may have some hope of keeping others from being enslaved by them.” Reaching out to touch my knee, the Doctor looked into my eyes with an expression what showed all the pain he’d felt when his beloved Mary Palmer had died just steps from where I was sitting. “You have lost someone you cared for deeply to those wretched perceptions, and to that enslavement. Can you now go on? We haven’t much time, and if you wish to stay out of what’s left to be done-”
He was cut off by a pair of sounds: a clap of thunder from the sky above, then the ringing of the telephone beyond the kitchen. I couldn’t and can’t say exactly why, but for some reason the pairing of those noises reminded me that El Niño was still out and at work, and that I still hadn’t heard anything from him. With that realization I stopped crying for the moment, and struggled to get to my feet.
“I’d better answer that,” I said, starting back toward the kitchen. “It might be El Niño-I left him to watch over the Dusters’ place.”
“Stevie.” I stopped and turned to see the Doctor still studying me, sympathetically, but with real purpose. “If you cannot go on, no one will blame you. But if you choose to go on, then remember what our work is.”
I just nodded, then headed into and past the kitchen, picking up the receiver of the phone and pulling the mouthpiece down. “Yeah?” I said.
“Señorito Stevie.” It was El Niño, all right, his voice still very businesslike and determined. “Do you have news of your friend?”
I sighed once, trying to hold back more tears. “The woman got to her,” I said. “She’s dead. Mr. Picton, too.”
El Niño muttered something softly in a language what I couldn’t place: neither English nor Spanish, I figured it for the native tongue of his people. “So,” he went on, after a moment’s pause. “The need for justice has grown. I am sorry for that, Señorito Stevie.”
“Where are you?” I asked.
“In the stables across from the house of the woman. She has returned there with baby Ana. I paid the man here for to use his telephone.”
“And the Dusters?”
“They are everywhere on the street.”
“Don’t make any play, then,” I told him. “If you can see some of them, that means there’s even more what you can’t see. Stay out of sight.”
“Yes. But if the chance comes-she dies, yes?”
Looking back into the kitchen, I saw that the Doctor and Miss Howard had come into it. They were watching me as I talked, probably knowing full well who was on the other end of the line.
“I don’t know about that,” I said, looking to the Doctor.
“But Señorito Stevie-your friend has died-”
“I know,” I answered. “But it might be more complicated than we thought. We need to know-to know why she’s doing this.”
The aborigine gave that a moment’s thought and a sigh before answering, “I tell you, Señorito Stevie-in jungles I have seen in my journeys, there are villagers who live near the lairs and hunting grounds of tigers. Some of these tigers kill men-some do not. No one knows why. But all know that the tigers who do kill must die-for once they drink the blood of man, they never lose the taste for it.” I couldn’t figure how to answer him: half of me knew that what he was saying, terrible as it was, made very real sense. “Señorito Stevie? You are there?”
“I’m here.”
“Will you hunt the tiger with me, or will you try to ‘understand’ it?”
I looked to the Doctor again, knowing, even in my sorrow, what I had to do. “I can’t,” I said, turning away so that the Doctor and Miss Howard wouldn’t hear me. “I can’t do it with you. But you go on. And don’t call here again-they’ll try to stop you.”
There was another pause; then El Niño said, “Yes. It is best, this. It is not for us to decide what is the way-only the gods and fate can determine who will reach her first. I understand you, my friend.”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I understand you, too.”
“I hope I shall see you again. If I do not-remember that I still wear the clothes you gave me. And when I do, I see your face, and feel your friendship. I am proud of this.”
The words put me near to tears again. “I’ve got to go,” I said, replacing the receiver on its little hook before El Niño had a chance to say anything more.
“The aborigine?” the Doctor asked.
I nodded, moving into the kitchen. “He’s down on Bethune Street. She’s back there with Ana. But the neighborhood’s crawling with Dusters.”
“I see.” The Doctor started pacing around the kitchen table. “Has she returned to the house simply to collect her things? Or to rid herself of the burden of Ana Linares in the safety of her secret hideaway?” After pondering this for a few seconds, the Doctor rapped a fist on the table. “In either case, we have run out of time-the crisis will play out tonight. If Marcus is successful, we can use the full power of the Police Department to enter the house. If not-”
“But even if he is,” Miss Howard added, “can we be sure she won’t harm the child before we get there? Or while we’re trying to get in?”
“We can be sure of nothing,” the Doctor answered. “But we must try to attend to what we can. With that in mind, Sara, I suggest that you call Señora Linares. Advise her that we must now take action, and that its results may not please her husband. She may wish to seek safety in some place other than her own home.” Nodding in agreement, Miss Howard moved to the phone just as Cyrus entered the kitchen and put a strong, comforting hand to my shoulder. “Ah, Cyrus,” the Doctor went on. “Some of your excellent coffee is called for, I think-we won’t be catching up on our sleep anytime soon, and clear heads will be needed.”
“Yes, sir,” Cyrus answered. Then he looked down at me. “Might be enough time for you to get a little rest, Stevie. You could use it.”
I just shook my head. “I don’t want to sleep,” I said, remembering what’d happened the last time I’d drifted off. “Make that coffee strong, though.”
“Always do,” Cyrus said. “Oh, and Doctor-the detective sergeant asked me to tell you that he’s gone down to headquarters to give his brother a hand. Says he’s worried about how long it’s taking.”