The Manor (17 page)

"Sure, I understand. It's not intolerable or anything. The worst part is that I get al sweaty and stinky, and I wouldn't want to scare off the other guests."

"That's why we have the hot water, Mr. Jackson."

Mason had reached the door to the basement. He had to go down there and see if he had actually sculpted the bust of Korban or if the night before had been a dream. He wondered if Miss Mamie was going to follow him down.

"Wel, I'l see you at dinner, I reckon," he said, wait-ing by the door. She put a cold hand on his arm. "You'll be getting some more wood this evening, won't you? I'll have Ransom hook up the wagon."

"Wel, I need to finish something first."

"Oh, I thought you were going to do a life-sized piece."

Mason searched his memory. Had he mentioned such a thing? A human figure? Had he even thought about it? Maybe his big dream images were geting so oversize that he was babbling about them before he could even get started.

"Yeah, I was thinking of something like that," he said.

"You're going to be successful. But you have to have the fire. Master Korban always said hard work is its own reward. You know what they say about idle hands."

Mason held up the hand that wasn't holding the sand-wich. "Well, I'd better get to work, then." Miss Mamie wore a look of anticipation as he reached for the doorknob. Mason didn't want to show anyone the work until he was sure it was finished.

"And I'll get up with Ransom about that wood," he said, slipping through the door. He closed it behind him, stumbling a little in the dark. By the time he'd inched his way down the steps, his eyes had adjusted to the daylight trickling through the small, high windows.

He reached the workbench and lifted the drop cloth. From the table, Korban stared back at him. No, not Korban. Just a highly detailed replica.

But for just a
moment...

Easy, guy. You 're just a little short of sleep, is all.

Then Mason looked down at his hand, remembering how it had felt when it had touched the cook. When it had passed through the cook.

Remembering how his hand had sunk into her flesh as if she were made of soggy, store-bought white bread. Remembering how his hand had burned.

Okay, so you 're more than just a little short of sleep. You must have hit yourself in the head
with the mallet last night.

Maybe hunger was the culprit. He took another bite of his sandwich.

Yeah, hunger. He'd better fatten up during his stay. There might be lean days ahead. Unless he kept producing work like
this.

The sculpture was solid proof of his ability. Fine, lifelike detail. Each eyelash defined. The lips set in a soft sneer between the thick mustache and beard, ready to part in speaking. Even when he turned away, he felt as if the eyes were following him.

He found an old broom in the corner and swept the wood shavings into a pile near the corner. Then he saw the oil painting where he'd left it leaning against the cabinet. He'd forgotten to ask Miss Mamie about it. Mason picked up the finished view of the house. He held it high so he could admire the brushstrokes in day-light. Yes, beautiful, if only the artist had fixed that lit-tle smudge.

The smudge had grown larger since the night be-fore. The gray area had stretched wide enough to cover two balusters of the railing.

It must have been a flaw in the paint. But Mason had never heard of oil paint deteriorating so rapidly. Though thoroughly dried, the paint was far from ancient.

Or maybe this was al in his imagination.

The incredible expanding stain, Ransom and his charms, Anna and her hints of ghosts, the creepy Lilith, the insubstantial cook. Sure, he could chalk all those odd things up to his imagination. But better to blame that good old standby, the al-time fave.

Stress.

Because this was it, the last hurrah, the whole enchi-lada, the really big shew, the last grab for the brass ring. The last big dream. Because if he didn't produce here, it was back to the textile mils, probably for good.
And THAT would make Mama proud, wouldn't it? After all her sacrifice.

Mason finished his sandwich, even though he'd lost his appetite. This bust couldn't be his masterpiece. Miss Mamie was right. Bigger was better.

"Did you get any footage this morning?" Adam leaned against the bureau and folded his arms. Paul put away his camera. "I have to save my batter-ies. I only have four. That gives me about eight hours of juice. And there's no way to recharge them out here."

Adam watched Paul stack the equipment in the closet. His partner had a cute body, he had to admit. But Adam sometimes wondered if their relationship was built on anything besides the physical. Paul liked Times Square, and the place gave Adam the creeps. Paul liked coffee-houses and parties, and Adam liked curling up on the sofa with a good book. When it came right down to it, Paul was late-night MTV and Adam was weekend VH-1.

And there was the issue of adoption. Adam was ready to raise a child, to share the wealth of love in his heart. He had plenty of money from his inheritance. Enough to pay the adoption fees and lawyers, enough for the courts to be satisfied that Adam had that most-desired parental quality: that Adam would be able to afford whatever outrageously expensive toy was trendy each Christmas, so the child wouldn't grow up as a social outcast, snubbed by peers and forever despised by advertisers.

Adam was afraid in some smal part of himself that he only wanted a child to tie Paul down. Paul was a bit of a free spirit, and even unknowingly hurt Adam by going on a weeklong cruise with an older man before Adam had mustered the courage to share his feelings. Paul had been faithful since, but Adam wondered if perhaps the right temptation had never arisen. In fact, he thought maybe you couldn't even cal it "faith" until that faith had survived a test.

"What do you want to do tonight?" Paul said. "Go down for drinks?"

"You could have joined me for lunch."

"Look, we don't have to spend every damned sec-ond together, do we?" Adam didn't answer, because something shifted in the mirror, a flicker cast by the fireplace.

"What's wrong?" Paul said.

Adam rubbed his eyes. "Nothing. I'm just a little messed up, I guess." Paul grinned. "Oh yeah. Maybe you saw the woman in white. And you thought I was lying."

"Too many other weird things are happening. I just saw—"

"Saw what?"

"I don't know. Just the reflection of the painting. I feel like ... like everything's going out of control. I mean, we're fighting all the time and I'm supposed to care about your stupid video when you won't even lis-ten to a word I say. And this place, it's getting on my nerves."

"Come on, this is only our third day here."

"And these problems are supposed to just go away?"

Paul's face clenched in anger. "I don't have time for this right now. In fact, I never have time for these pointless arguments. All you want to do is talk in cir-cles."

"Look, I don't mind paying for this vacation, but I thought you were going to be working on your pro-ject—"

"Oh, here we go with that crap again. You and your money."

Adam was on the verge of tears. Paul scorned tears and would say Adam was being a sily litle girl. And Paul would say it with the smug superiority of some-one whose emotions were always in check. Except the emotion of anger.

"Oh, Princess," Paul said, coming to him, hugging him. "Did someone upset the tea cart? Do you need an-other forty mattresses so you won't feel the pea?"

"Go away." Adam pushed Paul's arms from around his waist. "You bastard." Adam's vision blurred from rage. This was crazy. He never lost control like this.

"Fine, Princess," Paul said. "Don't bother waiting up for me." Adam sat on the bed as the door slammed. He wished they'd never come to Korban Manor. He stood and grabbed the bedstead, then started puling the twin beds apart. When he had them in separate corners of the room, he looked up at the portrait of Korban.

"Paul can have the woman in white, and I'll have you."

The fire roared its approval.

The horses were beautiful, sleek, their muscles bunched in grace. No wonder they were Anna's fa-vorite animals. Once, before the fatalistic oncology re-port, she had dreamed of owning a stable and boarding horses. But that dream was as fleeting and insubstantial as all the others, whether the dream was of Korban Manor, Stephen, or her own ghost.

She heard an off-key whistle, what sounded like an attempt at "Yankee Doodle," and turned to see Mason walking down the road toward the barn. He waved and stopped beside her at the fence, then looked across the pasture as if watching a movie projected against the distant mountains.

"So, how's the ghost-hunting going?" he asked.

She didn't need this. Stephen was bad enough. At least Stephen believed in ghosts, though his ghosts had energy readings instead of souls. But Mason was just another self-centered loser, probably a blind atheist, cock-sure that nothing existed after breath ceased. Atheists were far more proselytizing and smug than any Christian Anna had ever met.

"You know something?" she said. "People like you
deserve to be haunted." Mason spread his arms in wounded resignation. "What did I say?"

"You don't have to say it with words. Your eyes say plenty. Your eyes say, 'What a lovable flake. She's bound to be impressed by a great artist such as myself and it's only a matter of time before she falls into my bed.' "

"You must have me confused with Wiliam Roth."

"Sorry," she said, knowing she was taking her frus-tration and anger out on a relatively innocent by-stander. But no one was completely innocent. "I'm just a little unraveled at the moment."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Yeah. Like you'd understand."

"Look, I've seen you taking your long walks, sneak-ing out at night with your flashlight. So you like to be alone. That's fine. So do I. But if weird things are hap-pening to me, they're probably happening to you, too. Maybe even worse stuff, because no way in hel would I go out
there
in the dark." Mason nodded to the forest that, even with the explosion of autumn's colors, ap-peared to harbor fast and sharp shadows.

"What weird things are you talking about? I thought you were a skeptic."

"Ah. I figured I'd arouse your scientific curiosity, if nothing else. Have you seen George around?"

"George?"

Mason moved closer, lowering his voice as if to deter an invisible eavesdropper. "How long does some-body have to be dead before he becomes a ghost?"

Anna looked at Korban Manor through the trees, at the widow's walk with its thin white railing, where her dream figure had stood under the moonlight. "Maybe it happens before they're even dead."

"Okay. How about this one? Can you be haunted by something inside your own head? Because I'm seeing Ephram Korban every time I
close my eyes, I see him in the mirror, I see him in the fireplace, my hands carve his goddamned face even when I tel them to work on something else."

"I think the shrinks call it 'obsessive-compulsive disorder.' But that describes every artist I've ever known. And ninety-nine percent of al human males."

"Hey, we're not all assholes. And I wish you'd get off your personal vendetta against everybody who has a dream. Some artists are normal people who just hap-pen to make things because we can't figure out how in the hell to communicate with people."

"And some of
us
are normal people who search for proof of the afterlife because this life sucks in so many ways and humans always disappoint us. Ghosts are easier to believe in than most of the people I've met."

"Truce, then. Obviously we're both crazy as hell. For a minute there, I was afraid we didn't have any-thing in common."

That brought an unfamiliar smile to Anna's lips. "All right. Let's start over. I guess you've heard all the ghost stories. About how Ephram Korban jumped to his death off the widow's walk, though the best legends claim that one of the servants pushed him to his death because of the usual reasons."

"What reasons are those?"

"Unrequited love or requited love. Why else would you want to kill somebody? And, according to gossip and even a few parapsychology articles, Korban's spirit wanders the land, trying to find a way back into the manor in which he invested so much of his time, money, and energy."

"You don't believe it?"

The horses heard a call from the barn and took off at a gallop. "I wish I were that free," she said.

"Maybe I'll get to be a horse in the next life."

"The downside is, you'd have to die first. Like Ephram Korban."

"Well, he has a grave site up over that ridge, but a grave's nothing but a hole in the ground. I haven't seen his ghost."

"You really think ghosts are here?"

"I know they're here. When your life burns up, you leave a little smoke behind. And don't ask me to prove it, or you'll remind me of someone I've spent the past year forgetting."

"I'll take your word for it. Maybe I'll ask Ransom to let me borrow one of his charm bags. Says they keep restless spirits away."

"Can't hurt," Anna said. "I'm going down to the barn. Care to join me?"

"I'm heading there anyway. Miss Mamie has all but demanded that Ransom help me find a whopping big log to turn into a life-sized statue."

"Ah, you poor suffering artists. Always having to please the critics."

"You poor critics, always having to fake that world-class cynicism." By the time they reached the barn, Ransom had led the horses under an open shed built onto one wing of the barn. He hooked the cinch under the belly of the big roan, whose ears twitched as if this were a familiar game. Two lanterns blazed inside the barn, dangling from the dusty rafters. Leather straps and gleaming bits of metal hung along one wall, and four saddles were lined on a bench beneath the pieces of harness.