The Lower Deep Read Free Page A

voice since his earlier sojourn in St. Joseph, two years ago, and reacted as though he had not heard any woman's voice since then.
    Turning in astonishment and delight, but a delight tempered with a touch of anger in spite of himself—he found himself gazing wide-eyed at a slender, attractive woman five years younger than he, who looked five years younger than that. She wore a nurse's white uniform.
    "Nadine." It came out like a prayer because he still loved this woman. No other had taken her place.
    Her smile was quick and warm. "Steve. So here we are again."
    He took a step toward her, to embrace her, then realized he was being watched by people in the dining room. Reluctantly he settled for clasping her hands. "No one told me I'd find you here."
    "Until this morning, no one told me you were coming. We must get together and talk."
    "Have dinner with me now!"
    "Uh-uh." When she wagged her head, her soft, light gold hair bounced as though laughing. "You're expected to dine with the brass tonight. Come on, I'll take you over and introduce you."
    He let her do so, then she left him. With his heart still pounding he watched her join a young St. Joseph nurse at another table. His past was overtaking him here, he realized. First Mendoza, then the cook, now the only woman he'd ever truly loved.
    What next?
    For the next hour or so he mechanically lifted food to his mouth while his tablemates told him about the job he had taken on. But although they obviously had the best of intentions, he heard little. Nadine Palmer kept getting in the way.
    "Now then, Steve"—he had asked them at once to call him that—"let me tell you a little about Dr. Driscoll's diet program." That was the lady dietitian talking, an obviously competent woman of middle age, from, she had said, Chicago. And he listened, or tried to, while his mind said, Damn it, Nadine, you and Tom Driscoll saved my life! Why wouldn't you answer my letters?
    "We think we have some interesting ideas on therapy, Steve." That was the staff psychologist, a middle-aged New Yorker named Baker. Very intense, very sincere, obviously very dedicated to his work. But—
    We were in love, woman. You nursed me up from hell after those voodoo people clobbered me. Then you wouldn't even let me say good-bye when I had to haul ass out of there. Why, Nadine, why?
    They talked to him about the lectures. The medication. The exercise and recreation programs. They explained Driscoll's solid belief in the use of stress-management and assertiveness training. It went on and on.
    But anything he took in must have been absorbed subliminally, because he wasn't really listening.
    Nothing mattered except the woman across the room.
    He still wanted her. Still loved her. Damn it, he had never stopped loving her! And now she was in reach again!

3
     
    T o reach the town of Dame Marie Du Nord from the Azagon one could go by road or along the shore. Along the shore was shorter by at least half a mile, but, of course, one had to walk.
    Paul Henninger chose the shore route, leaving the Azagon just after eleven in the morning. He had hoped to go earlier, but the newly arrived Dr. Spence had wanted to inspect the retreat's facilities with him and go over the patients' records. He had even wanted to meet certain patients who had severe problems. Robert Morrison, for instance. Philip Wynn. Lawton Lindo. Especially Lawton Lindo.
    A good man, Spence. A bit too energetic, perhaps, but knowledgeable and decent. Still, there were things he must not be told, or allowed to find out.
    Striding along the wet, hard-packed sand just above the water line, Henninger kept turning his head to glance at the sea. The rain had stopped just before dawn and the water was extra dazzling this morning. The sunlight seemed to melt on contact and flow over it like liquid gold. There was almost no breeze.
    Normally there was a breeze. Sometimes for days on end it was strong enough to keep the local fishermen from venturing out. The many large