The Heaven Makers by Frank Herbert

behind his car. Two officers got out. Thurlow recognized one of them—Maybeck, Carl Maybeck, a slim angular man with bony wrists, narrow face. He came loping across the lawn to Thurlow while his companion went to the woman.
    “Oh… Dr. Thurlow,” Maybeck said. “Didn’t recognize you.” He stopped, facing Thurlow. “What’s the trouble? We got a call, something about an accident. Ambulance’s on the way.”
    “The woman there…” Thurlow nodded toward her, “…says Nev Hudson’s dead, something about falling into some glass. She may be mistaken. Shouldn’t we get inside and…”
    “Right away, Doc.”
    Maybeck led the way running up to the front door. It was locked.
    “Around the side,” the woman called from behind them. “Patio doors’re open.”
    They ran back down the steps, around the side, wet leaves of shrubbery soaking them. Thurlow felt himself moving in a daze. Ruth! My God, where are you? He skidded on the wet bricks of the patio, almost fell, righted himself and was staring down at the red mess that had been Nev Hudson.
    Maybeck straightened from a brief examination of the man. “Dead all right.” He looked at Thurlow. “How long you been here, Doc?”
    “He brought Mrs. Hudson about half an hour ago.” It was the neighbor woman. She came to a stop beside Thurlow. “He’s dead isn’t he?” How delighted she sounded!
    “I… I’ve been waiting in the car,” Thurlow said. “That’s right,” the woman said. “We saw them come up. Expected another fight between Hudson there and his Missus. I heard the crash, him falling, but I was in the bathroom. I came right out to the kitchen.”
    “Did you see Mrs. Hudson?” Maybeck asked.
    “She wasn’t anywhere around. There was a lot of smoke coming out these doors here, though. He may’ve burnt something. He drank a lot, Mr. Hudson. May’ve been trying to open the doors for the smoke and…” She pointed to the body.
    Thurlow wet his lips with his tongue. He was afraid to go in that house, he realized. He said: “Hadn’t we better look inside. Perhaps…”
    Maybeck met his stare. “Yes. Perhaps we had better.”
    They could hear an ambulance siren now. It wailed to silence out front. The other officer came around the house, said: “Ambulance is here, Carl. Where…” He saw the body.
    “Tell ’em not to disturb any more than they have to,” Maybeck said. “We’re going to look around inside.”
    The other officer peered suspiciously at Thurlow.
    “This is Dr. Thurlow,” Maybeck said.
    “Oh.” The officer turned to direct men in white coming around the house.
    Maybeck led the way inside.
    Thurlow was caught immediately by the sight of Ruth’s clothing thrown on the bed. His chest felt tight, painful. The neighbor woman had said Ruth wasn’t here, but…
    Maybeck stooped, peered under the bed. He straightened, sniffed. “You smell something, Doc?”
    Thurlow grew aware that there was an odd odor in the room—almost like burnt insulation.
    “Almost smells like fire and brimstone,” Maybeck said. “Probably was something burned in here.” He glanced around. There was an empty ashtray on a nightstand. It was clean. He looked in the closet, went into an adjoining bath, returned shaking his head.
    Thurlow went out to the hall, looked down it toward the living room. Maybeck brushed past him, led the way into the room. He moved cautiously but with a practiced sureness, peered into the hall closet, behind a davenport. He touched only what he had to touch for his investigation.
    They progressed through the house this way, Thurlow a hesitant onlooker, fearful of what they might find around the next corner.
    Shortly, they were back in the bedroom.
    The ambulance doctor stood in the door, smoking. He glanced at Maybeck. “Not much we can do here, Carl. Coroner’s on his way.”
    “What’s it look like?” Maybeck asked. “Was he pushed?”
    “Looks like he stumbled,” the doctor said. “Carpets pushed up there by