the stone mantel, then crashed to the tabletop. A silver candelabrum flew across the room and landed on the floor by Barrett, thudding against his side. He fell with a gasp of pain. Florence cried out. " No! "
All movement ceased abruptly, except for the decreasing arcs of the remaining sanctuary lamps. Edith bent over Barrett anxiously. "Lionel?" She touched his shoulder. He managed to nod.
"Ben, you've got to leave this house."
Fischer turned to Florence, startled by her words.
"You aren't up to it," she told him.
" What the hell are you talking about? "
Florence turned to Barrett for support. "Doctor—" she began, then stopped, seeing how he looked at her as Edith helped him to his feet. "Are you all right?" she asked.
He didn't answer, leaning against the table with a groan. Edith looked at him in fright. "Lionel?"
"I'll be all right." He tightened the handkerchief around his thumb. The cut was deep; it stung. There were islands of pain all over his body—his arm, his chest, his shin, his ankle, mostly his side. His leg ached horhbly.
Florence stared at him. Why had he looked at her that way? Suddenly she thought she knew. "I'm sorry I spoke so angrily,"
he said. "But please support me in this. I think it's important that Ben—that Mr. Fischer leave the house."
Barrett clenched his teeth against the pain. "Trying to get us both out now?" he muttered. Florence looked at him in surprise.
"Help me to our room, please?" Barrett asked his wife. Edith nodded faintly, handed him his cane, and took his arm.
Florence didn't understand. "What do you mean, Doctor Barrett?"
He threw a glance around the wreckage of the hall. "I should think that was obvious," he said.
Stunned into silence, Florence watched the Barretts leave. After they were gone, she looked at Fischer. "What is he saying?"
she asked. "That I —?"
Fischer turned away from her.
28
"Ben, it isn't true!"
He lurched away. Still moving, he glanced back at her. "You're the one who'd better leave," he said. "You're the one who's being used, not me."
6:48 P.M.
Barrett sat down gingerly. "My bag," he murmured. Edith let go of his arm and hurried to the Spanish table, lifting off the small black bag in which he kept his codeine and first-aid kit. Returning quickly to the bed, she set the bag beside him. Lionel was removing the handkerchief from his thumb with slow, careful movements, his teeth clenched at the pain.
The sight of the deep, blood-oozing cut made Edith hiss. "It's all right," Barrett told her. Reaching into the bag, he took out the first-aid kit and opened it. Removing a packet of sulfa powder, he tore it open. "Would you get me a glass of water, please?"
Edith turned to the bathroom. Barrett drew a box of gauze from the first-aid kit and started to break the seal on its cover.
When Edith returned, he handed her the box. "Would you bandage it?" he asked. She nodded, giving him the glass of water.
Taking his container of pills from the black bag, he got one out and washed it down.
Edith winced as she started bandaging. "This needs stitches."
"I don't think so." Barrett gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing, as she wrapped the gauze around the thumb. "Make it tight."
When the thumb was bandaged and taped, he eased up his left trouser leg. There was a dark-red burn on the calf. Edith looked at it in dismay. "You have to see a doctor."
"Put some Butesin picrate on it."
She looked at him for several moments indecisively. Then, kneeling beside him, she spread the yellow cream across the burn. Barrett hissed and closed his eyes. "It's all right," he muttered, knowing she was looking at him.
Edith wrapped some gauze around his leg, then helped him lie down. Barrett groaned and shifted onto his left side. "I am one gigantic mass of bruises," he said, trying to make it sound like a joke.
"Lionel, let's go home."
Barrett took another sip of water and handed her the glass. He slumped back on the pillows she had propped behind him.
"I'm all
All movement ceased abruptly, except for the decreasing arcs of the remaining sanctuary lamps. Edith bent over Barrett anxiously. "Lionel?" She touched his shoulder. He managed to nod.
"Ben, you've got to leave this house."
Fischer turned to Florence, startled by her words.
"You aren't up to it," she told him.
" What the hell are you talking about? "
Florence turned to Barrett for support. "Doctor—" she began, then stopped, seeing how he looked at her as Edith helped him to his feet. "Are you all right?" she asked.
He didn't answer, leaning against the table with a groan. Edith looked at him in fright. "Lionel?"
"I'll be all right." He tightened the handkerchief around his thumb. The cut was deep; it stung. There were islands of pain all over his body—his arm, his chest, his shin, his ankle, mostly his side. His leg ached horhbly.
Florence stared at him. Why had he looked at her that way? Suddenly she thought she knew. "I'm sorry I spoke so angrily,"
he said. "But please support me in this. I think it's important that Ben—that Mr. Fischer leave the house."
Barrett clenched his teeth against the pain. "Trying to get us both out now?" he muttered. Florence looked at him in surprise.
"Help me to our room, please?" Barrett asked his wife. Edith nodded faintly, handed him his cane, and took his arm.
Florence didn't understand. "What do you mean, Doctor Barrett?"
He threw a glance around the wreckage of the hall. "I should think that was obvious," he said.
Stunned into silence, Florence watched the Barretts leave. After they were gone, she looked at Fischer. "What is he saying?"
she asked. "That I —?"
Fischer turned away from her.
28
"Ben, it isn't true!"
He lurched away. Still moving, he glanced back at her. "You're the one who'd better leave," he said. "You're the one who's being used, not me."
6:48 P.M.
Barrett sat down gingerly. "My bag," he murmured. Edith let go of his arm and hurried to the Spanish table, lifting off the small black bag in which he kept his codeine and first-aid kit. Returning quickly to the bed, she set the bag beside him. Lionel was removing the handkerchief from his thumb with slow, careful movements, his teeth clenched at the pain.
The sight of the deep, blood-oozing cut made Edith hiss. "It's all right," Barrett told her. Reaching into the bag, he took out the first-aid kit and opened it. Removing a packet of sulfa powder, he tore it open. "Would you get me a glass of water, please?"
Edith turned to the bathroom. Barrett drew a box of gauze from the first-aid kit and started to break the seal on its cover.
When Edith returned, he handed her the box. "Would you bandage it?" he asked. She nodded, giving him the glass of water.
Taking his container of pills from the black bag, he got one out and washed it down.
Edith winced as she started bandaging. "This needs stitches."
"I don't think so." Barrett gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing, as she wrapped the gauze around the thumb. "Make it tight."
When the thumb was bandaged and taped, he eased up his left trouser leg. There was a dark-red burn on the calf. Edith looked at it in dismay. "You have to see a doctor."
"Put some Butesin picrate on it."
She looked at him for several moments indecisively. Then, kneeling beside him, she spread the yellow cream across the burn. Barrett hissed and closed his eyes. "It's all right," he muttered, knowing she was looking at him.
Edith wrapped some gauze around his leg, then helped him lie down. Barrett groaned and shifted onto his left side. "I am one gigantic mass of bruises," he said, trying to make it sound like a joke.
"Lionel, let's go home."
Barrett took another sip of water and handed her the glass. He slumped back on the pillows she had propped behind him.
"I'm all
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