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  She opened and spread the quilt beside him, hesitated, biting her lip, then put her hands under him and rolled him carefully, onto his back. His right hand fell from the tree. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted. She took a few moments to press her cold fingers against the carotid artery in his neck. There was a pulse, but his face was so blank it scared her. Barry looked him over quickly. His left thigh above the knee was swollen, turning a mottled purple. That was where the Volvo had struck him, fortunately knocking him aside. She pressed gently on his rib cage and then his abdomen, wondering if something was torn inside, leaking blood into the abdominal cavity. She remembered a childhood friend, kicked by a cow, who had nearly died from a ruptured spleen. But she didn't feel swelling anywhere. His scrotum, gnarled and blue, was tight to the body. His ample penis tapered almost to a point, like that of Michelangelo's David.

  Barry straightened, unfastened the toggles of her parka, and took it off. She was only three or four inches shorter than he was, and she had long arms. She managed to squeeze him into the fur-lined parka. Then she wrapped him in the quilt, tucking it in around his feet. But even that wasn't going to be enough. . .

  "Hey! Anybody around here?"

  Barry straightened, looking up toward the road. She saw a crimson glow from the flasher atop the station wagon. The day was darkening, and it seemed colder. She wiped freezing snow from her lashes and shivered; she was wearing only, a lightweight cotton sweater.

  A figure partly materialized out of the storm above her. A man with a flashlight.

  "Down here!" Barry screamed. "I need help!"

  The flashlight beam, diffused, highlighted the branches of the hawthorne tree and the young man's unconscious face. The newcomer studied them for several seconds, then abruptly vanished.

  Barry slumped bleakly in the snow, teeth chattering, wondering if he was just going to drive off again. But within a minute he was back, picking his way cautiously down the slope in his Vibram-soled boots, a coil of rope over one shoulder, a rolled-up square of pearly plastic in the other. Barry recognized him, jumped up, and almost lost her footing.

  "Albert!"

  Albert Tweedie raised his head. "Barry?" He was a hulking young man of twenty; he had been in Barry's classes, off and on, from the first grade, but had fallen steadily behind her. A year ago he had dropped out of the high school to marry a homeless girl with two small children. His family was still upset, but Barry had heard the marriage was going pretty well; Albert was good with the kids.

  He kneeled beside the victim, then glanced at her again; "What happened?"

  "Well, I—I don't know where he came from. He was just on the road, and I—I couldn't help it, I didn't see him in time—"

  Fresh tears threatened; Barry blinked hard. Albert studied her, taking time to think over everything she was trying to tell him. He was excessively prognathic, with acne like blackberry stains on his jaw. His eyes were on the small side, and everyone thought him irredeemably stupid. Barry had decided long ago that Albert had good sense and a willing heart—he was just a little slow and socially inept. With Albert, as with most people, patience and understanding paid off. "You run over him?"

  "I hit him. His leg looks b-bad above the knee—it m-may be broken."

  Albert unfolded the quilt and chewed his lip vigorously upon discovering that the other young man was naked; but he said nothing to Barry. After a while Albert wrapped him again and looked back, pondering the steepness of the slope behind him.

  "Can you c-carry him?" Barry asked.

  Albert shook his head. "Better not try. He's big." He unfurled the plastic, which had metal grommets around the edges, and began threading the Dacron rope he'd brought with him through the grommets. Barry, rocked by shudders, guessed what Albert was up to and looked at him admiringly.

  He was aware of her distress. He paused to take off his down-filled vest and handed it to her.

  "No, n-no, I'm o-k-kay."

  "Go on—cold don't bother me." He even seemed to be perspiring lightly as he worked. Barry slipped into the old vest, which needed cleaning.

  "What'll we do?"

  "This is like a hammock, see? This way we can drag him uphill and he'll be wrapped tight, won't be moving much. In case there's broken bones."

  "I don't know what I'd've done if you hadn't c-c-come along, Albert."

  "Don't worry. You hold his head steady now, and I'll move him."

  Together they laced the young man into the dropcloth until his arms were tight at his sides, hands overlapping his thighs. Albert went first up the slope, moving backwards, grunting with effort, feeling for handholds behind him. The rope was belayed around his waist. Barry followed, trying to act as a brake, holding the wrapped victim steady when Albert paused to be sure of his footing.

  They were near the top of the slope when they heard a siren; a police car appeared in the tunnel of the bridge. Albert had left his pickup truck on the other side of the road, engine running. He hurried to flag down the cop with his flashlight.

  Chapter 2

  The officer's name was Mix; he was in his thirties, wore a khan's mustache, and had popped brown eyes that gave him a look of constant asperity, as if he found even the routine matters of life infernally perplexing. He asked for Barry's driver's license. Then, with Albert standing behind her, chewing his lip, Barry stammered through a brief explanation of events.

  Mix went down on one knee, pulled a pencil flashlight from his shirt pocket, opened the victim's right eyelid, and shone the light on the dilated pupil. It contracted, but a little slowly. Mix unwrapped-the young man, looked him over for a few seconds, then rose and put his hands on his hips.

  "You a witness?" he asked Albert.

  "He just g-got here a few minutes ago," Barry told the cop.

  "And you don't know who this is you hit?"

  "I never saw him before," Barry said, and knew that Mix didn't believe anything she'd told him.

  "Okay, he's a male Doe. Probably going into shock. Best thing now's to get him to the hospital. We ought to use your station wagon, instead of waiting for an ambulance. You okay to drive?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Bring it on down here."

  With Albert pushing from the front Barry was able to get the Volvo back on the road. Down by the bridge Mix took the time to look inside, using his big flashlight. He read the registration and insurance card, then continued, maddeningly, to poke around. He was searching for dope, or clothing, or both, Barry decided. So he thought . . . Barry's cheeks fired up, and she began to stammer again from the cold.

  "He wasn't r-r-riding with me," she said in exasperation.

  Mix didn't reply. He and Albert lifted the injured man into the station wagon. Albert volunteered to ride along to keep an eye on him. Barry was grateful to have his company. She still felt shaky, but perhaps the worst was over.

  Mix led the way to the Anatolia Community Hospital, siren going, blue and red roof lights twinkling in the deepening gloom and snowfall. Albert was crouched behind the front seat, keeping the victim's head from rolling side to side; Mix had stressed the importance of this, in case there was an injury to the cervical spine. Barry had the Volvo's heater on full blast, which intensified her headache. The ordeal had nauseated her, but she was determined not to yield to the urge to pull over and let Albert take the wheel.

  "How is he?"

  "Not so cold."

  "Good."

  "You know what I think?" Albert said hesitantly. No one ever cared what he thought.

  "What's that, Albert?"

  "He was out there camping."

  "Without any clothes on?"

  "Could've gone swimming."

  "'In this weather?"

  "My uncle goes swimming at Coney Island every weekend. Even in January. And he's sixty-three. It's like a club he belongs to. He says ice water is good for his circulation. Well, he's in pretty good shape except he's deaf in one ear."

  Barry had another idea. "It could have been a dumb ini
tiation stunt."

  "One of those college fraternities?"

  "It wouldn't be the first time they've left them in the woods around here. Maybe they didn't know it was supposed to snow."

  When they reached the hospital the victim was still unconscious. A doctor and two nurses were waiting for him at the emergency entrance, and they hustled him on a gurney to a treatment room inside. Barry and Albert stood around while Mix advised the charge nurse how to fill out her forms. There wasn't much to tell her about the young man.

  To Barry, Mix said, "There's an investigator on his way over, like to talk to you."

  "I'm not going anywhere. But I want to call my father. And what about Albert? He left his truck at the bridge."

  "He can leave anytime."

  Barry looked at Albert and shrugged apologetically. From the treatment room she heard a nurse call out, "Blood pressure one-ten." A heart monitor was beeping at a steady clip. "Can you hear me?" the doctor said loudly. "What's your name? Tell me your name." Barry, itching with curiosity, started to drift toward the room. The charge nurse sternly shook her head. Instead Barry and Albert went to the hospital lobby to look for telephones.

  The housekeeper at the farm, Mrs. Aldrich, told Barry that her father had been notified ten minutes ago by the state police and was on his way to town. "Should I wait supper?"

  "I think so, Mrs. Aldrich. Is Dal home?"

  "No, but the last I heard he still planned to drive up from the city with his young lady. There's Ethan outside honking for me now—if I stay any longer we'll never get up our hill tonight. Everything's ready for the oven when you get here."

  "Thanks, Mrs. Aldrich."

  In the gift shop in the lobby Barry bought presents for Albert's stepchildren: a windup bear that played cymbals, a rag doll with floppy curls and an ear-to-ear sewn grin. She had enough money left for a copy of Seventeen, which featured on the cover a model friend of her brother's, and a Snickers bar, a lifelong addiction. Barry wolfed the candy, but her stomach complained. She wrapped the other half and put it in her purse.

  "Jessie's coming for me," Albert said when she caught up to him in the lobby.

  "Good. My dad's on the way too. Albert, you probably saved that guy's life. I couldn't have done anything by myself. This is just something for the kids, okay?"

  Barry went back to Emergency. The patient was still in the treatment room. Barry had a quick look at him, lying there, unresponsive. The shadows of a doctor, a nurse, and a man in a topcoat were on the curtain that was partially pulled around the table. There was something else—a bundle of rags or cloth on the floor, black and orange and bloody. Unexpected. Too vivid. Barry felt a touch of darkness, a passing fever. She backed away and gave herself a pinch to partially restore equilibrium. She cornered the charge nurse, who smiled distantly at her questions.

  "How bad is he hurt?"

  "That's hard to say."

  "Why is he still unconscious?"

  "I don't think you should worry."

  "What do you mean I shouldn't worry? I'm the one who. . ."

  The man in the khaki topcoat came out of the treatment room and smiled at her. He wore big round fishbowl eyeglasses. He had the general contours, the pussyfoot amble, and slightly manic air of Garfield the cat.

  "Are you Barry? I'm Stewart Ivorson. You used to take piano lessons from my mom."

  "Oh, sure. How is she?"

  He wiggled the fingers of one hand. "Arthritis. Cuts down on her teaching. Why don't we sit over there, I need to ask you a few questions about the accident."

  They walked toward a row of blue and orange molded plastic chairs that reminded Barry of nursery school. Ivorson flipped through the pages of a pocket spiral notebook, musing.

  "Do you know who he is?" Barry asked.

  "Not yet. Couple of men over at the park trying to find out where he was camping, if he was."

  "What does the doctor say?"'

  "He's cautiously optimistic. Let's see, we've got a male Doe approximately twenty years of age, in good physical condition. Body temperature when he was brought in was 94.2 degrees. No signs of frostbite or prolonged exposure to the elements. The patient's pupils were reactive, all other neurological signs were normal. There's no trauma on the outside of the skull. Pretty good contusion on the left thigh between the hip and the knee, possible fracture of the femur, patient's going to X ray in a couple of minutes. His respiration' was shallow, now it's near normal. Blood pressure is on the low side, but not dropping. That means there's probably no serious bleeding anywhere. But he's out cold, hasn't responded to verbal or physical stimuli. Do you know what time the accident happened?"

  Barry told him approximately when she had left Anatolia.

  "Given the driving conditions, we can say that the accident occurred about ten minutes after four. Posted speed limit on the bridge is twenty-five miles an hour. Think you might have been going faster?"

  "A little," Barry admitted.

  "Let's say thirty miles an hour. I don't suppose you thought to notify your insurance company?"

  "God, I forgot! Maybe Dad—"

  "One of you take care of that as soon as possible. Okay, Barry, want to go through it again for me?"

  Barry closed her eyes for a few moments, anxious again, trying to get rid of the fog in her mind, to clearly relive the accident. She needed to go to the bathroom, but she wanted to have the investigation over with.

  She concentrated and saw it all again: the dark shaft of the covered bridge, the hard gusts of snow at the other end, then the figure immediately in front of her on the narrow road, suddenly big as life and too close, head turning, hands raised . . . But this time she saw him a little differently—something about the victim was reminiscent of Ned Kramer.

  Barry stiffened, stopped talking, stared openmouthed at the opposite wall with an expression of anguish. "He's going to live. He has to."

  "Take it easy, Barry," Ivorson said, misinterpreting the look on her face. "Visibility was poor, and you had almost no time to react. I'd say you did a good job of saving his life."

  She turned wearily to him.

  "I'm not in trouble, am I?"

  "Doesn't look that way to me. I've got everything I need for now. Why don't you go home and get some rest?"

  "I better wait for Dad. I don't think I could drive right now."

  The charge nurse brought her parka to her from the treatment room. Barry took it eagerly, feeling cold from shock. But, although the young man had worn it for the better part of an hour, he'd left no clues to himself. Putting on the parka was worse than going blind; it was like stepping into the featureless eternity of a grave. Barry reacted violently, shucking the parka and dropping it on a chair.

  Two hospital attendants wheeled the young man out of the treatment room on the other side of the nurses' station. A sheet covered him now, from his ankles to his chin. His eyes were closed. His hands were folded on his chest. He was handsome, but lifeless. He seemed to her bewitched, a fallen prince.

  Barry rose as if she intended to follow the gurney. She wanted to see his eyes open, hear him breathe. She staggered a little, feeling a sharp pulse of blood almost like a blow to her left temple.

  She felt the grip of a supporting hand and turned. Her father was there. She hadn't seen him come in. He was staring at the young man on the gurney as it was taken away. A muscle near Tom Brennan's left eye twitched as it usually did when he was snatched out of his studio or creative reverie and presented with a crisis. He adjusted slowly, and sometimes with resentment, to the reality of the world. And he'd always hated hospitals.

  It was a treat then just to lean against him with her eyes closed for a few moments. Tom Brennan's arms went around her. She knew what he must be thinking. Remembering. Edie had been brought here from the smashup; she was dead minutes before the ambulance reached the emergency room doors. And the stranger who had been in the car with Edie had not survived her by more than half an hour.

  "You okay?" Tom asked Barry, sque
ezing.

  "Shaky. It comes and goes."

  "How is he?"

  "Nobody's saying yet, but he's alive. I can go home." She looked at Ivorson for confirmation. He nodded and extended a hand to her father.

  "Mr. Brennan? I'm Stew Ivorson, state police. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. I've always been a great admirer of your work."

  "Thank you. Any charges against Barry?"

  "Not likely to be." Ivorson smiled approvingly at her. "She's quite a girl. Well, I'll be in touch."

  "Let's get out of here," Barry said thankfully.

  Chapter 3

  Tom had brought the Chevy Blazer, which was equipped with heavy-duty suspension, tires that could chew through six inches of fresh snow, and a plow attachment to push the really heavy stuff aside. A ten-year-old dyspeptic bloodhound with a voice like the thunder of doom made room for Barry in the cab of the truck, then lay with his head in Tom's lap. The bloodhound's name was Kipper, but Barry had renamed him Meanness for the volatility of his bowels, and that name had stuck.

  They left the Volvo in the hospital's parking lot and headed for home. Meanness broke wind. Barry groaned and rolled the window on her side down halfway.

  "Not sticking to his diet, is he?" Barry said accusingly. "He must have got hold of something ripe in the woods."

  "Ugh."