Gwen, in Green

“There is the problem of communication. It is largely a one-­way thing, more an influence than something expressed. They can make themselves known to me—”

“Just to you?”

“To a chosen female of any species.” She paused. She was past the point of no return. “And, in special cases, to certain others. There was my cat, Satan. Before he came to me someone had denatured him. He was a neuter, a nothing. They reached Satan and used him to keep me from killing myself.”

“I would not lose much, at my age, by being a eunuch,” King said with a crinkly smile. “Would they talk to me?” He realized quickly that his attempt at levity had fallen short. “So they speak to females only?”

“They influence, make ­known the core of themselves, they share. In return, they receive mainly emotions, strong emotions. They recognize intent, intent to do harm or to do good.”

“An ability and talent shared by plants in general?”

“To a limited extent.”

“And they can control your actions?”

“Not control,” she said. “They can only show, share, and appeal. That, of course, is a strong influence, for it is very dramatic to be able to share the death of a thousand living beings. Who would be unaffected? Who would not respond?”

“As you have responded?” King asked.

“Yes.”

“May I ask why you’re telling me ­this now?”

“I need time,” she said, turning from her cooking to look at him. “Soon the deaths will end, at least for now. Then we’ll have peace again. We’ve known this all along. We know we should not act, call attention to ourselves, but the pain, in such masses, such waves, is maddening, unbearable. We’ve been forced to do things—”

He broke the silence which followed. “Such as the intimate activities with the young boys? Let me see if I understand. Sex is a vividly strong emotion. You share that emotion with those who feel the pain, thus blacking out the pain for a moment.”

“Yes.”

He phrased his next question carefully. “When Evelyn Rogers was alive the island was being timbered. Thus, from what you’ve told me, there was pain as the trees were cut. Was she helping them, the ones in the pond, by engaging in sex acts? Was she extracting a measure of revenge when she killed the loggers?”

“She had to. Can’t you see? There was no other way. You can’t just do nothing when mass murder is being performed. You have to do something.”

“I must ask this, Gwen,” he said. “Have you done anything other than engage in sex to help them?”

She turned to look at him. She smiled. “Do I look like a killer?”

He had to admit she did not. At the moment, she looked like a typical young housewife busy with her meal. She looked attractive, neat, and charming. But then so had Evelyn Rogers.

“That must not happen, Gwen.”

She turned away.

“Will you come to my office regularly until the, ah, pain is over?”

“Is that the deal?” she asked.

“Call it that if you like,” he said. “I’d prefer you call it concern for you.”

“All right.”

He hesitated, but curiosity was hot in him. “Would it be possible for me to have a sample of the plants of the pond, the plants which are inhabited by this alien life force?”

She turned to look at him with unblinking eyes. “If you should try to disturb them I’d have to kill you.”

King felt his chest tighten, but the entry of George precluded an immediate answer or further questioning.

18

“Hey, we’re going to be notorious,” George said, after greeting Dr. King. King had no way of knowing that George’s next statement was, for the good doctor, a death sentence. “Some kids found a body up by the canal cut today.”

King looked quickly toward Gwen, his mind rebelling at the thought. She showed only proper interest.

It was the young kid who had wanted to earn an extra dollar by working overtime. She’d killed him badly. He was still alive when she had tumbled him into the hole and, in his terminal agony, his movements had disturbed the thin layer of sand and leaves atop him. The diggings of small, carrion-­eating animals had further uncovered him. The stench, thus freed of the covering earth, had led Gwen’s two late afternoon playmates, the brothers Don and Tommy Promer, to the sunken hole. The sight of the kid’s rotting skull, gnawed by rodents, mutilated by the shotgun blast, had an effect on the boys which would not fade quickly.

And it was not 1937. The kid was not Negro. When Don and Tommy reported their find, after a headlong race to the island police station, things began to move rapidly. Even as Gwen Ferrier prepared club steaks, rare, topped with native mushrooms, the search was still going on up in the woods. Before Dr. Irving King died, there would be other grisly discoveries, but he would not know.

She was calm. She knew what she had to do. It was relatively simple. While George and Dr. King sat in the big room with cigars and a pre-­dinner drink, she slipped out the back door and walked in the light of a rising moon, plucked the poison mushrooms and spiced one steak with them.