Kate Wilhelm - The Gorgon Field

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The Gorgon Field

THE GORGON FIELD

Kate Wilhelm

"The Gorgon Field" was purchased by Shawna McCarthy, and appeared in the August

1985 issue of Asimov's, with a cover by J. K. Potter and an interior illustration by

Stephen L. Gervais. Wilhelm is another writer who doesn't appear in Asimov's as often as

we'd like, but each appearance has been significant, including her story "The Girl Who

Fell into the Sky," which won a Nebula Award in 1987. Kate Wilhelm began publishing in

1956, and by now is widely regarded as one of the best of today's writers. Wilhelm won a

Nebula Award in 1968 for her short story, "The Planners," took a Hugo in 1976 for her

novel Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang, and won yet another Nebula in 1988 for her story

"Forever Yours, Anna." Her many books include the novels Margaret and I, Fault Lines,

The Clewisten Test, Juniper Time, Welcome, Chaos, Oh, Susannah!, Huysman's Pets, and

Cambio Bay, and the collections The Downstairs Room, Somerset Dreams, The Infinity

Box, Listen, Listen, Children of the Wind, and And the Angels Sing. Wilhelm and her

husband, writer Damon Knight, ran the famous Milford Writer's Conference for many

years, and both were involved for many years in the operation of the Clarion workshop for

new young writers. She lives with her family in Eugene, Oregon.

Wilhelm's work has never been limited to the strict boundaries of the field, and she has

published mainstream thrillers and comic novels as well as science fiction. In recent

years, she has become particularly well-known as a mystery novelist, with a long series of

novels and stories about the detecting team of Constance Leidl and Charlie Meiklejohn, a

series that started in the pages of Asimov's with the story "With Thimbles, with Forks,

with Hope," and has gone on to include well-known mystery novels such as The Hamlet

Trap, Smart House, Seven Kinds of Death, The Dark Door, and Sweet, Sweet Poison. The

Leidl and Meiklejohn stories have been collected in A Flush of Shadows. Wilhelm's other

mystery novels include Death Qualified, The Best Defense, and Justice for Some.

In the engrossing story that follows, one of the best of the Leidl and Meiklejohn stories,

she shows us that although it's a detective's duty to follow a path into the heart of even the

most complex of mazes, getting out of the labyrinth again once you get in may turn out to

be the most difficult and dangerous part of the job...

Constance took the call that morning; when she hung up there was a puzzled expression on her face.

"Why us?" she asked rhetorically.

"Why not us?" Charlie asked back.

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The Gorgon Field

She grinned at him and sat down at the breakfast table where he was finishing his French toast.

"That," she said, pouring more coffee, "was Deborah Rice, ne'e Wyandot, heiress to one of the world's

great fortunes. She wants to come talk to us this afternoon, and she lied to me."

His interest rose slightly, enough to make him look up from the newspaper. "About what?"

"She claims we know people in common and that we prob-ably met in school. I knew she was there, it

would be like trying to hide Prince Charles, I should think, but I never met her, and she knows it."

"So why did you tell her to come on out?"

"I'm not sure. She wanted us to come to her place in Bridgeport and when I said no, she practically

pleaded for an appointment here. I guess that did it. I don't think she pleads for many things, or ever has."

It was April; the sun was warm already, the roses were budding, the daffodils had come and gone, and

the apple trees were in bloom. Too pretty to leave right now, Constance thought almost absently, and

pushed a cat away from under the table with her foot. It was the evil cat Brutus who had always been a

city cat, still wanted to be a city cat, and didn't give a damn about the beauty of the country in April. He

wanted toast, or bacon, anything that might land on the floor. The other two cats were out hunting, or

sunning themselves, or doing something else catlike. Brutus was scrounging for food. And Charlie, not

yet showered and shaved, his black hair like a bush, a luxuriant overnight growth of bristly beard like a

half mask on his swarthy face, making him look more like a hood than a country gentleman, cared just

about as much for the beautiful fresh morning as the cat. Constance admitted this to herself reluctantly.

He had been glad to leave the city after years on the police force, following as many years as a fire

marshal, but she felt certain that he did not see what she saw when he looked out the window at their

miniature farm. On the other hand, she continued the thought firmly, he slept well, and he looked

wonderful and felt wonderful. But he did miss the city. She had been thinking for weeks that they should

do something different, get away for a short time, almost anything. There had been several cases they

could have taken, but nothing that seemed worth the effort of shattering the state of inertia they had

drifted into.

Maybe Deborah Rice would offer something different, she thought then, and that was really why she had

told her to come on out.

"My father," Deborah Rice said that afternoon, "is your typical ignorant multi-millionaire."

"Mother," Lori Rice cried, "stop it! It isn't fair!"

Constance glanced at Charlie, then back to their guests, mother and daughter. Deborah Rice was about

fifty, wearing a fawn-colored cashmere suit with a silk blouse the exact same color. Lori was in jeans

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The Gorgon Field

and sneakers, and was thirteen. Both had dusky skin tones, although their eyes were bright blue. The

automobile they had arrived in, parked out in the driveway, was a baby-blue Continental, so new that

probably it never had been washed.

"All right," Deborah said to her daughter. "It isn't fair, nevertheless it's true. He never went past the sixth

grade, if that far. He doesn't know anything except business, his business." She turned to Constance.

"He's ignorant, but he isn't crazy."

"Mrs. Rice," Charlie said then in his drawly voice that made him sound half asleep, or bored, "exactly

what is it you wanted to see us about?"

She nodded. "Do you know who my father is, Mr. Mei-klejohn?"

"Carl Wyandot. I looked him up while we were waiting for you to arrive."

"He is worth many millions of dollars," she said, "and he has kept control of his companies, all of them,

except what he got tired of. And now my brother is threatening to cause a scandal and accuse my father

of senility."

Charlie was shaking his head slowly; he looked very unhappy now. "I'm afraid you need attorneys, not

us."

He glanced at Constance. Her mouth had tightened slightly, probably not enough to be noticeable to

anyone else, but he saw it. She would not be interested either, he knew. No court appearance as a tame

witness, a prostitute, paid to offer testimony proving or disproving sanity, not for her. Besides, she was

not qualified; she was a psychologist, retired, not a psychiatrist. For an instant he had an eerie feeling

that the second thought had been hers. He looked at her sharply; she was studying Deborah Rice with

bright interest. A suggestion of a smile had eased the tightness of her mouth.

And Deborah seemed to settle deeper in her chair. "Hear me out," she said. Underlying the imperious

tone was another tone that might have been fear. "Just let me tell you about it. Please."

Constance looked at Lori, who was teasing Brutus, tickling his ears, restoring his equanimity with gentle

strokes, then tickling again. Lori was a beautiful child, and if having access to all the money in the world

had spoiled her, it did not show. She was just beginning to curve with adolescence, although her eyes

were very aware. She knew the danger in teasing a full-grown, strange cat.

"We'll listen, of course," Constance said easily to Deborah Rice, accepting for now the presence of the

girl.

"Thank you. My father is eighty," she said, her voice becoming brisk and businesslike. "And he is in

reasonably good health. Years ago he bought a little valley west of Pueblo, Colorado, in the mountains.

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The Gorgon Field

Over the last few years he's stayed there more and more, and now he's there almost all the time. He has

his secretary, and computers, modems, every convenience, and really there's no reason why he can't

conduct business from the house. The home office is in Denver and there are offices in New York,

California, England. But he's in control. You have to understand that. There are vice-presidents and

managers and God knows what to carry out his orders, and it's been like that for twenty-five years. Noth-

ing has changed in that respect. My brother can't make a case that he's neglecting the business."

Charlie watched Brutus struggle with indecision, and finally decide that he was being mistreated. He did

not so much jump from Lori's lap as flow off to the floor; he stretched, hoisted his tail, and stalked out

without a backward glance. Lori began to pick at a small scab on her elbow. The fragrance of apple

blossoms drifted through the room. Charlie swallowed a yawn.

"I live in Bridgeport," Deborah was saying. "My husband is the conductor of the symphony orchestra,

and we're busy with our own lives. Admittedly I haven't spent a great deal of time with Father in the last

years, but neither has Tony, my brother. Anyway, last month Tony called me to say Father was having

psychological problems. I flew out to Colorado immediately. Lori went with me." She turned her gaze

toward her daughter. She took a deep breath, then continued. "Father was surrounded by his associates,

as usual. People are always in and out. They use the company helicopter to go back and forth. At first I

couldn't see anything at all different, but then ... There's a new man out there. He calls himself Ramon,

claims he's a Mexican friend of a friend, or something, and he has a terrible influence over my father.

This is what bothered Tony so much."

Constance and Charlie exchanged messages in a glance. Hers was, they'll go away pretty soon, be

patient. His was, let's give them the bum's rush. Deborah Rice was frowning slightly at nothing in

particular. And now, Constance realized, Lori was putting on an act, pretending interest in a magazine

she had picked up. She was unnaturally still, as if she was holding her breath.

Finally Deborah went on. "Tony believes Ramon was responsible for the firing of two of his, Tony's,

subordinates at the house. It's like a little monarchy," she said with some bitterness. "Everyone has spies,

intrigues. The two people Father fired alerted Tony about Ramon. Tony's office is in New York, you

see."

"That hardly seems like enough to cause your brother to assume your father's losing it," Charlie said

bluntly.

"No, of course not. There are other things. Tony's convinced that Father is completely dominated by

Ramon. He's trying to gather evidence. You see, Ramon is ... strange."

"He's a shaman," Lori said, her face flushed. She ducked her head and mumbled, "He can do magic and

Grandpa knows it." She leafed through the magazine, turning pages rapidly.

"And do you know it, too?" Charlie asked.

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The Gorgon Field

"Sure. I saw him do magic."

Deborah sighed. "That's why I brought her," she said. "Go on and tell them."

It came out in a torrent; obviously this was what she had been waiting for. "I was at the end of the

valley, where the stone formations are, and Ram6n came on a horse and got off it and began to sing.

Chant, not really sing. And then he was on top of one of the pillars and singing to the setting sun. Only

you can't get up there. I mean, they just go straight up, hundreds of feet up. But he was up there until the

sun went down and I ran home and didn't even stop."

She turned another page of the magazine. Very gently Charlie asked, "Did Ramon see you when he rode

up on his horse?"

She continued to look at the pages. "I guess he saw me run. From up there you could see the whole

valley." Her face looked pinched when she raised her head and said to Charlie, "You think I'm lying? Or

that I'm crazy? Like Uncle Tony thinks Grandpa is crazy?"

"No, I don't think you're crazy," he said soberly. "Of course, I'm not the expert in those matters. Are you

crazy?"

"No! I saw it! I wasn't sleeping or dreaming or smoking dope or having an adolescent fantasy!" She shot

a scornful look at her mother, then ducked her head again and became absorbed in the glossy advertising.

Deborah looked strained and older than her age. "Will you please go out and bring in the briefcase?" she

asked quietly. "I brought pictures of the formations she's talking about," she added to Constance and

Charlie.

Lori left them after a knowing look, as if very well aware that they wanted to talk about her.

"Is it possible that she was molested?" Constance asked as soon as she was out of the house.

"I thought of that. She ran in that day in a state of hysteria. I took her to her doctor, of course, but there

was no evidence that anything like that happened."

"Mrs. Rice," Charlie said then, "that was a month ago. Why are you here now, today?"

She bit her lip and took a deep breath. "Lori is an accomplished musician, violin and flute, piano. She

can play almost any instrument she handles. It's a real gift. Recently, last week, I kept hearing this weird,

that's the only word I can think of, weird music. Over and over, first on one instrument, then another. I

finally demanded that she tell me what she was up to, and she admitted she was trying to recreate the

chant Ramon had sung. She's obsessed with it, with him, perhaps. It frightened me. If one encounter

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Kate Wilhelm - The Gorgon Field

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