Lasher (67 page)

“Listen to me, Eugenia, there’s something real important you gotta do,” he said. “Go upstairs to my room. There’s an old Victrola on the floor. Wind it and start the record. OK?”

“Now? At this hour of the night? For what?”

“Just do it. Tell you what. Bring it down to the parlor. That will make it easier. Oh, never mind, you can’t carry it. Just go up there, and play that record a few times and then go to bed.”

“Your wife is found, your wife is alive, and you’re headed to the hospital to see her, and you don’t know whether she’s all right or been hit in the head or what, and you’re telling me to go play a phonograph record.”

“Right. You got it all exactly right.”

There was the car, a great dark fish sliding beneath the oaks. He hurried down the steps, turning quickly to Eugenia:

“Do it!” he said, and went out. “The point is, she is alive.” He climbed into the backseat of the limo. “Take off.” He slammed the door. “She is alive, and if she is alive, she’ll hear me, I’ll talk to her, she’ll tell me what happened. Jesus Christ, Julien, she is alive. The hour is not yet come.”

As the car moved onto Magazine Street and headed downtown, the rest of the poem came back to him, all of it, a long string of dark and dreamy words. He heard Julien’s voice, with the fancy French accent illuminating the letters, just as surely as the old monks had illuminated letters when they painted them bright red or gold and decorated them with tiny figures and leaves.

“Isn’t it the most terrible thing?” Henri was saying. “All of those poor women. To think of it, all of them dead the same way.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Michael. He wanted a cigarette. He could smell that sweet cheroot of Julien’s. The fragrance clung to his clothes. Like a bolt it came back. Julien lighting that cheroot, inhaling and then waving to him. And the deep glint of the brass bed in the room, and Violetta singing to all those men.

“What poor women? What are you talking about? It’s like I’m Rip Van Winkle. Give me the time.”

“The time is eleven-thirty p.m., boss,” said Henri. “I’m talking about the other Mayfair women, Miss Mona’s mother dying uptown, and poor Miss Edith downtown, though best I can remember I never met her, and I don’t even remember the name of the other lady, and the lady in Houston and the one after that.”

“You’re telling me all these women are dead? These Mayfair women?”

“Yes, boss. All died the same way, Miss Bea said. Mr. Aaron called. Everybody was calling. We didn’t even know you were home. The lights were out upstairs in that room. How would I know you were asleep on the floor?”

Henri went on, something about looking all over the house for Michael, saying to Eugenia this and that, and going outside to look for him, and on and on. Michael didn’t hear it. He was watching the decayed old brick buildings of Magazine Street fly by; he was hearing the poem.

S
O THIS IS
Stolov. He knew the moment he stepped off the plane. They had tracked him all the way. And here was the big man, waiting for him, a bit overmuscular in his black raincoat, with large eyes of a pale indistinct color which nevertheless shone rather bright like clear glass.

The man had near-invisible blond eyelashes and bushy brows, and his hair was light. He looked Norwegian to Yuri. Not Russian. Erich Stolov.

“Stolov,” Yuri said, and, shifting his bag to the left, he extended his hand.

“Ah, you know me,” said the man. “I wasn’t sure that you would.” Accent, Scandinavian with a touch of something else. Eastern Europe.

“I always know our people,” said Yuri. “Why have you come to New Orleans? Have you been working with Aaron Lightner? Or are you here simply to meet me?”

“That is what I’ve come to explain,” said Stolov, placing his hand very lightly on Yuri’s back as they followed the carpeted corridor together, passengers streaming by them, the hollow space itself seeming to swallow all warm sounds. The man’s tone was very cooperative and open. Yuri didn’t quite believe it.

“Yuri,” said the other. “You shouldn’t have left the Motherhouse, but I understand why you did. But you know we are an authoritarian order. You know obedience is important. And you know why.”

“No, you tell me why. I am excommunicated now. I feel no obligation to talk to you. I came to see Aaron. That’s the only reason I am here.”

“I know that, of course I do,” said the other, nodding. “Here, shall we stop for coffee?”

“No, I want to go to the hotel. I want to meet with Aaron as soon as I can.”

“He couldn’t see you now if he wanted to,” said Stolov in a low conciliatory voice. “The Mayfair family is in a state of crisis. He is with them. Besides, Aaron is an old and loyal member of the Talamasca. He won’t be happy that you’ve come so impulsively. Your show of affection may even embarrass him.”

Yuri was silently infuriated by these words. He didn’t like this big blond-haired man.

“So I will find him and find out for myself. Listen, Stolov, I knew when I left I was out. Why are you talking this way to me—so patient, so agreeable? Does Aaron know you are here?”

“Yuri, you are valuable to the Order. Anton is a new Superior General. Perhaps David Talbot would have handled things much better. It’s in times of transition that we sometimes lose people whom we come, very much, to miss.”

The man gestured to the empty coffee shop, where china cups shimmered on smooth Formica tables. Smell of weak, American coffee, even here in this town.

“No, I want to go on,” said Yuri. “I am going to find Aaron. Then the three of us can talk, if you like. I want to tell Aaron I’m here.”

“You can’t do that now. Aaron is at the hospital,” said Stolov. “Rowan Mayfair has been found. Aaron is with the family. Aaron is in danger. That’s why it’s so important you listen to what I have to say. Don’t you see? This misunderstanding amongst us—it came about because we were trying to protect Aaron. And you.”

“Then you can explain it to both of us.”

“Hear me out first,” the man said gently. “Please.”

Yuri realized the man was virtually blocking his path. The man was larger than he was. He wasn’t so much a menace as he was a great obstacle, forceful and stubborn and believing in himself. His face was agreeable and intelligent, and once again he spoke in the same even, patient tone.

“Yuri, we need your cooperation. Otherwise Aaron may be hurt. You might say this is a rescue mission involving Aaron Lightner. Aaron Lightner has been drawn into the Mayfair family. He is no longer using good judgment.”

“Why not?”

But even as he asked this question, Yuri yielded. He turned, allowed himself to be led into the restaurant, and capitulated, taking a chair opposite the tall Norwegian, and watching in silence
as the waitress was instructed to bring coffee, and something sweet to eat.

Yuri figured Stolov was perhaps ten years older than he. That meant Stolov was perhaps forty. As the black raincoat fell open, he saw the conventional Talamasca suit, expensive cut, tropical wool, but not ostentatious. The look of this generation. Not the tweed and leather patches of David and Aaron and their ilk.

“You’re very suspicious and you have a right to be,” said Stolov. “But Yuri, we are an order, a family. You shouldn’t have gone out of the Motherhouse the way you did.”

“You told me that already. Why did the Elders forbid me to speak to Aaron Lightner?”

“They had no idea that it would have such repercussions. They wanted only silence, an interval, in which to take measures to protect Aaron. They did not imagine those words spoken in a booming voice.”

The waitress filled their china cups with the pale, weak coffee. “Espresso,” said Yuri. “I’m sorry.” He pushed the pallid cup away.

The woman laid down rolls for them to eat, sweet-smelling, iced and sticky. Yuri wasn’t hungry. He had eaten something wholly unappetizing and very filling on the plane.

“You said they
found
Rowan Mayfair,” said Yuri, staring at the rolls, and thinking how sticky they would be if he touched them. “You mentioned a hospital.”

Stolov nodded. He drank his pale amber-colored coffee. He looked up with those peculiar soft light eyes. The absence of any color made them look vacant and then suddenly unaccountably aggressive. Yuri couldn’t figure why.

“Aaron is angry with us,” said Stolov. “He is not being cooperative. On Christmas Day something happened with the Mayfair family. He believes that if he had been present, he could have helped Rowan Mayfair. He blames us that he did not go to Rowan. He’s wrong. He would have died. That is what would have happened. Aaron is old. His investigations have seldom if ever involved this sort of direct danger.”

“That wasn’t my impression,” said Yuri. “The Mayfair family tried to kill him once before. Aaron has seen plenty of danger. Aaron has been in danger in other investigations. Aaron is a treasure to the Order because he has seen and done so much.”

“Ah, but you see, it is not the family which is the threat to
Aaron now, it is not the Mayfair Witches, it is an individual whom they have aided and abetted, so to speak.”

“Lasher.”

“I see you know the file.”

“I know it.”

“Did you see this individual when you went to Donnelaith?”

“You know I didn’t. If you are working on this investigation, you’ve already seen the reports I copied to the Elders, the reports I made for Aaron. You know I talked to people who had seen this individual, as you put it. But I didn’t see him myself. Have you seen him?”

“Why are you so angry, Yuri?” What a lovely, deep, reverent voice.

“I’m not angry, Stolov. I am in the grip of suspicion. All my life I’ve been devoted to the Talamasca. The Talamasca brought me into adulthood. I might not have been brought that far if it hadn’t been for the Order. But something is not right. People are acting in strange ways. Your tone is strange. I want to speak directly with the Elders. I want to speak to them!”

“That never happens, Yuri,” said Stolov quietly. “No one speaks to the Elders, you know that. Aaron could have told you that. You can communicate with them in the customary fashion…”

“Ah, this is an emergency.”

“For the Talamasca? No. For Aaron and for Yuri, yes, definitely. But for the Talamasca, nothing is an emergency. We are like the Church of Rome.”

“Rowan Mayfair, you said they found her. What is this about?”

“She is in Mercy Hospital, but sometime this morning they will take her home. Overnight she was on a respirator. This morning they removed her from it. She continues to breathe on her own. But she will not recover. They confirmed this last night. There has been enormous toxic damage to her brain, the kind of damage produced by shock, drug overdose, an allergic reaction, a sudden rise in insulin; I am quoting her physicians now to you. I’m telling you what they are telling the other members of the family.

“They know she cannot recover. And her own wishes regarding such situations are in writing. As the designee of the legacy she laid down her own medical instructions for such a crisis. That once a negative prognosis had been confirmed, she be removed from life support and taken home.”

Stolov looked at his watch, a rather hideous contraption full of tiny dials and digital letters.

“They are probably taking her home now.” He looked at Yuri. “Aaron is most surely with them. Give Aaron some time.”

“I’ll give
you
exactly twenty minutes. Explain yourself. Then I’m going on.”

“All right. This individual—Lasher—he is very dangerous. He is unique as far as anyone knows. He is trying desperately to propagate. There is some evidence that some members of the Mayfair family might be useful to him in this, that the family carries a genetic peculiarity, an entire set of chromosomes which other humans do not have. There is evidence that Michael Curry carries this same surplus of mysterious chromosomes. That it is a trait peculiar to those of the northern countries, in particular the Celts. When Rowan and Michael mated, they produced this unique creature. Not human. But it might not have been successfully born if there had not been some extraordinary spiritual intervention. The migration, if you will, of a powerful and willful soul. This soul entered the embryo before its own soul had taken control of it, and this soul directed the embryo’s development, availing itself of these surplus chromosomes to produce a new and perhaps unprecedented design. It was a meeting if you will of mystery and science, of something spiritual and a genetic irregularity of which that spiritual force took advantage. A sort of physical opportunity for an occult and powerful thing.”

Yuri considered this for a long moment. Lasher, the spirit who would be flesh, who had threatened Petyr van Abel with his grim predictions, who had tried again and again to materialize, had been born to Rowan Mayfair. This much he had deduced before he ever came here. That the creature wanted to mate, to reproduce, that was something he had not considered. But it was logical.

“Oh, very logical,” said Stolov. “Evolution is about reproduction. This thing is now caught up in the broad scheme of evolution. It has made its grand entry. It would now reproduce and take over. And if it can find the right woman, it will be successful. Rowan Mayfair has been destroyed by its attempts to reproduce. Her body has been ravaged by her brief aborted pregnancies. Other women in the family, lacking the surplus chromosomes, suffered fatal hemorrhages within hours of the creature’s visitation. The family knows the creature destroyed
Rowan Mayfair, and that it is a menace to other Mayfair females, that it will use up their lives rapidly in an effort to find one who can survive fertilization and successfully give birth. The family will close ranks, protect itself and hide this knowledge, just as it has always done with such occult secrets in the past. It will seek the creature in its own fashion, using its immense resources. It will not allow the world outside to assist or to know.”