Lasher (54 page)

Ryan made a quiet, polite little gesture for attention. He was still standing in the corner of the room.

“Dr. Larkin, we have a lot of work to do. This is a big family. Just reaching everyone is quite a chore. And since five o’clock, we’ve had another death in the Houston area.”

“Who was this?” asked Aaron.

“Clytee Mayfair,” said Ryan. “She didn’t live that far from Lindsay. She died at nearly the same time, as a matter of fact.
We suspect that she opened her front door to a visitor probably an hour or so after Lindsay had done the same thing in Sherman Oaks. At least that seems to be the picture. Please, Dr. Larkin, go back to the hotel.”

“In other words, you
believe
everything I’ve told you! You believe this creature is…”

“We know it is,” said Ryan. “Now please do go. Settle in at the Pontchartrain, and make yourself comfortable, and don’t go out. Gerald and Carl will be with you.”

Aaron had taken Lark’s arm before he could answer. Aaron escorted Lark into the outer office and then into the corridor of the building. Lark saw the two young men, more cookie-cutter Mayfairs in pale wool suits with lemon or pink silk ties.

“Look, I…er…I have to sit down a minute,” he said.

“At the hotel,” said Lightner.

“Your people did this? Your people went into Keplinger and took that information?”

“That’s my guess,” said Lightner. Obviously the man was miserable.

“Then that means they ran down Flanagan? They killed him?”

“No, it doesn’t necessarily mean that No, I can’t say that it means that. I don’t believe it means that I believe that they…took advantage of a sudden opportunity. I can’t believe anything else at this moment But until I can reach the Elders in Amsterdam, until I can find out who sent whom where, I have no real answers.”

“I see,” said Lark.

“Go back to the hotel and rest.”

“But the women—”

“Everyone’s being contacted. There are calls being made to every Mayfair connection known to the family. I’ll call you as soon as I have word. Try to get your mind off it”

“Get my mind off it!”

“What else can you do, Dr. Larkin?”

Lark was about to speak, but there were no words. Nothing came out. He looked up and saw that the young man named Gerald held the door open for him, and that the other man was eager to go, and in the act of turning. This meant something, meant he had to move. He didn’t consciously decide.

Suddenly he was in the corridor, and they were moving towards the elevator together. There were two uniformed policemen
by the elevator. The young men passed them without a word.

Once they were inside and on the way down, the younger one spoke.

“It’s all my fault,” he said. This was the one they called Gerald. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. The other, older, thinner, and a little tougher-looking all around, asked:

“Why?”

“I should have burnt the house the way Carlotta wanted.”

“What house?” demanded Lark.

Neither man answered him. He asked the question again, but he realized they were not even listening to him. He said nothing more.

The lobby of the building was lined with uniformed security officers, policemen, other seemingly official personnel, some of whom looked at them impassively. Lark saw the big limo hovering out there in the putrid glare of the mercury lights.

“What about Rowan!” he said. “Is anybody still looking for Rowan!”

He stopped in his tracks. But again, neither man answered. Neither man seemed even to hear. There was nothing to be done but get into the leather-lined car. Icebox pie. The Pontchartrain had just about the best icebox pie he had ever tasted. He didn’t think he wanted anything else. Just coffee and chicory and icebox pie…

“That’s what I want when we get back. Icebox pie and coffee.”

“Sure thing,” said Gerald, as if this were the first time Lark had said anything that made sense.

Lark just laughed to himself. He wondered if Martha had family around to go with her to Flanagan’s funeral.

L
ET ME PASS
quickly to the point. I did not lay eyes upon the bleak dreamy landscape of Donnelaith until the year 1888. My “memories” continued much in the same vein, though there was increasingly confusing material mixed up with them.

By that time, Mary Beth had grown into a powerful witch, more quick-witted, cunning and philosophically interesting than Katherine, Marguerite and even Marie Claudette insofar as I could judge such things. But then Mary Beth was of a new age—postwar, post-crinoline, as they said.

She worked by my side in my three endeavors: care of family; pursuit of pleasure; making money. She became my confidante, and my only friend.

I had many lovers during these years—men and women. I was married. My darling wife, Suzette, whom I loved very much in my own selfish way, gave me four children. I wish I could tell you the story of all this, because in a way, everything a man does is part of the moral fabric of who he is, and what he is. And this was never more true than with me.

But there isn’t time. So let me only explain that no matter how close I was to wife, lovers, and children, it was Mary Beth who was my friend, who shared the secret of the knowledge of Lasher and all its burdens and dangers.

New Orleans was, throughout that period, vice-ridden, and a great place for whoring, gambling, and merely watching the spectacle of life in all its seediness and violence. I adored it, felt fearless in its midst and pursued my passions. And Mary Beth, disguised as a boy, went with me everywhere. While I protected my sons somewhat, sending them off to Eastern schools and preparing them for the world at large, I nurtured Mary Beth with much stronger ingredients.

Mary Beth was the single most intelligent human being I have ever known. There was nothing in business or politics or any realm which she could not grasp. She was cool, relentless, logical, but above all imaginatively brilliant. She saw the larger scheme of things.

And she perceived early on that the daemon did not.

Let me give an example. There came to New Orleans in the early 1880s a musician called Blind Henry. Blind Henry was an idiot savant. There was nothing he could not play on the piano. He played Mozart, Beethoven, Gottschalk, but Blind Henry was otherwise just what the title implies, an utter idiot.

When Mary Beth and I attended this concert, she wrote on her program a note to me, right under the nose of the daemon, so to speak, who was totally taken by the music. “Blind Henry and Lasher—same form of intellect.”

This was exactly right. It is a far more mysterious question than we can examine here. And today you know more in the modern world about idiot savants, autistic children and the like. But in her simple way, she was trying to communicate to me: Lasher cannot put either learning or perception into any real context. We, the living, have a context for what we know and feel. This dead thing does not.

And having understood this from an early age, Mary Beth did not mythologize the spirit. When I suggested it was a vengeful ghost, she shrugged and considered the possibility.

But—and this is key—she didn’t despise Lasher as I did, either.

On the contrary, she bore him love; and he forged with her a close emotional link, drawing from her a sympathy which I did not feel for the being.

And as I saw this happening, as I saw her nodding to my ironic statements, and carefully veiled warnings, as I saw her understanding me perfectly, yet nevertheless loving
him
, I understood better why he had always preferred women to men, for I think he played to a part of women which is more dormant in men. They were more likely to fall in love with, to feel pity for, to be enamored of, that which gives them erotic pleasure.

Of course this is a bias on my part. A bias. I presented it to her, and she sneered. “It’s like the old argument from the witch judges,” she said, “that women are more susceptible to the Devil’s blandishments because they are more stupid. Shame on
you, Julien. Maybe the simple fact is I am more capable of love than you are.”

We argued about this all of our lives. All of our lives.

I once suggested in rapid debate that most women were morally flawed and could be led to anything. She quietly pointed out to me that she felt a deep honor-bound responsibility to Lasher, which I, the pragmatist and diplomat, did not feel. I was the one morally flawed, she said. And perhaps she was right.

Whatever the case, I always felt an abhorrence for the thing. And she didn’t feel it.

“When you are gone someday,” she said, “there will be only I and that thing. It will be my love, my solace, my witness. I do not really care what it is or whence it comes. I do not care what I am or whence I come. The idea that I can think of myself in those terms is an illusion.”

She was then fifteen, tall, black-haired, very sturdy of build and very pretty in a dark strong way which some men would not have found appealing. Her manner was quiet, and highly persuasive. All admired her, and anyone not afraid of her unflinching gaze and mannish poise usually was smitten by her.

I was impressed, of course. All the more because after saying such a thing, she could smile and do this trick which never failed to delight me: to take the thick braid of her black hair and untangle it so that the whole veil spilled over her shoulders in sharp little waves, and then shake it out and laugh, as if transforming herself at once in that gesture from my intellectual companion to a budding woman.

But understand, I was the only male ever to have power with Lasher. And I still maintain that I had a male’s immunity to the thing’s blandishments. And mark, I’ve been frank with you about my male amours. I am not prejudiced against that love that dares not say its name, and so forth. Love to me…is love. In my heart of hearts I loathed the creature! I loathed its reckless mistakes! I loathed its sense of humor.

Alors
. Sharing my ambition in every regard, Mary Beth became familiar with our business dealings from early childhood. By the time she was twelve she had participated with me in decisions which so diversified and extended our fortune that an unstoppable money-making machine had been created from the Mayfair capital.

We were as active in Boston and New York and London as in the South. Money was in place where it could only make
more money, and that money automatically made more money, and so forth and so on, and so it has been really since those days.

Mary Beth was a genius at it. And she learnt to use the spirit very skillfully, as her spy, her informant, her observer, her idiot savant adviser. It was quite startling to watch her at work with the being.

Meantime we had made the First Street house ours. My brother, Rémy, was quiet, retiring, his children sweet and good-natured. My boys were off at school. My poor daughter Jeannette, feebleminded as Katherine had been, died young. That is another tale—all that. My sweet Jeannette, my beloved wife, Suzette. I cannot tell it.

After the death of those two, which came much later on, and the death of my mother, Marguerite, Mary Beth and I were quite isolated from all the world in our shared knowledge and passion, and our relentless pursuit of pleasure. But this isolation had already begun.

We were also mad for the modern world. We journeyed to New York frequently merely to be in the thriving capital. We adored the railroads; we kept abreast of new inventions; indeed we invested in progress, per se. We had a passion for change, while many in our family and in our home had nothing of the sort. Rather they clung to a sleepy, glamorous Old World past, receding behind closed shutters. Not so with us.

We had…as they say in your time…we had our hands into everything.

And let me note that until we went to Europe in the year 1887, Mary Beth had maintained her status as a Virgin Warrior, so to speak, never allowing any man in any sort of way to really touch her. That is, she had fun in a thousand ways, but she ran no risk of mothering a witch until such a time as she could pick the father. That is why she preferred the boy disguise when we went cavorting on the town. And beautiful dark-eyed boy that she was, she never let anyone too close to her.

Finally the time came when we could break away for a long European trip, a Grand Tour, an exercise of our wealth on a large scale, a marvelous and long-overdue education. Overdue for me, that is, and perhaps even for her. If I have one regret it is that I did not travel more in life; and that I did not encourage others in my family to travel. But that is of small import now.

The spirit was very loath for us to go; over and over he warned against the dangers of wandering; he told us we possessed Paradise where we were. But we would not be deterred; Mary Beth was desperate to see the world, and the spirit would keep her happy; and within an hour of our departure it was clear that he was journeying with us.

Throughout our tour, he could be summoned with a silent wish, and frequently when I saw Mary Beth at a distance I saw him beside her.

In the city of Rome, he went into me for many hours, but the effort exhausted him. Indeed it seemed to madden him. He begged to go home, that we cross the sea, that we return to the house he so loved. He said that he detested this place; indeed he could not endure it. I told him we had to take this trip, that it was folly to think the Mayfairs would never journey afar, and to be quiet, there was nothing to be done for it.

When we journeyed north of Rome towards Florence, he became disconsolate, and turbulent, and actually left us. Mary Beth was afraid. She could not summon him, no matter what she did.

“So we are on our own in the mortal world,” I said with a shrug. “What can happen to us?”

She was leery and sad, and wandered the streets of Siena and Assisi by herself, scarce speaking to me. She missed the daemon. She said that we had caused it pain.

I was indifferent.

But oh, to my regret! When we reached Venice, and lodged in a gorgeous palazzo on the Grand Canal, the monster came to me. It was one of his most vicious and contrived and strong gestures.