Authors: Anne Rice
Reuben felt the breath go out of him. They were nearing the spot where he’d struggled with Marchent’s attackers, the spot where he’d nearly died.
He hadn’t remembered the dark oak wainscoting. No bloodstains were visible. But some seven feet of carpet stretching from the stairs to the kitchen door was obviously brand-new. It did not match the wide Oriental runner on the stairs.
“You’d never know it even happened!” declared Galton triumphantly. “We scrubbed those floorboards. There must have been two inches of old wax on them anyway. You would just never know.”
Reuben stopped. No memory attached itself to the spot. All he remembered was darkness, and he slipped into the darkness, compulsively reliving the attack, as though he was making the Stations of the Cross in St. Francis at Gubbio Church on Good Friday. Teeth like needles driving into his neck and skull.
Did you know what would happen to me when you let me live?
Galton let loose with a long, truly awe-inspiring string of clichés and platitudes to the effect that life goes on, life belongs to the living, these things happen, nobody’s safe, you know, you never knew why things happened, one day you would know why things happened, and even the best boys can go bad these days with the dope the way it is, and we just have to get over these things and move on.
“I’ll tell you this much,” he said suddenly in a low, confidential voice. “I know what did it. I know what got you. And it’s a miracle it let you live.”
The hair stood up on the back of Reuben’s neck. His heart was thudding in his ears. “You know what did it?” he asked.
“Mountain lion,” said Galton, narrowing his eyes and lifting his chin. “And I know which mountain lion too. She’s been in these parts too long.”
Reuben shook his head. He felt a surge of relief. Back to the old mystery. “It couldn’t have been,” he said.
“Oh, son, we all know it was that mountain lion. She’s out there somewhere now with her litter. Three times I’ve gotten a clear shot at her and missed. She took my dog from me, young man. Now you never knew my dog. But my dog was no ordinary dog.”
Reuben felt a surge of relief at all this, because it was utterly off the mark.
“My dog was the most beautiful German shepherd I ever saw. Panzer was his name, and I reared that dog from a six-week-old pup myself and trained him never to take a morsel of food except from my hand, gave him all the commands in German, and he was the finest dog I ever had.”
“And the mountain lion got him,” Reuben murmured.
The old man lifted his chin again and nodded solemnly. “Dragged him off, right out of my yard down there and into the woods, and there was hardly anything left of him when I found him. She did that. She and her litter, and that litter’s almost grown. I went after her, went after the brood. I’ll get her, permit or no permit! They can’t stop me. Just a matter of time. But you be careful if you go walking in these woods. She’s got her young cats with her. I know she has, she’s teaching them to hunt, and you have to be careful at sundown and at dawn.”
“I’ll be careful,” Reuben said. “But it really wasn’t a mountain lion.”
“And how do you know that, son?” the man asked.
Why was he arguing? Why was he even saying a word? Let the old man believe what he wanted to believe. Isn’t that what everybody was doing?
“Because I would have smelled it if it had been a mountain lion,” he confessed, “and the scent would have been on the dead men and on me.”
The man pondered that for a moment, reluctantly, but seemingly honestly. He shook his head. “Well, she got my dog,” he confessed, “and I’m going to kill her just the same.”
Reuben nodded.
The old man started up the broad oak stairway.
“Did you hear about that poor little girl in Marin County?” Galton asked over his shoulder.
Reuben murmured that indeed he had.
He could scarce breathe. But he wanted to see everything, yes, every single thing.
The place looked so clean, polished floorboards gleaming on either side of the old Oriental carpet. The little candlelike sconces were all lighted as they had been that first night.
“You can put me in that last bedroom back there,” he said. This was the last one at the end of the western hall, Felix’s old room.
“You don’t want the master bedroom on the front of the house? Gets a lot more sun, that front room. Beautiful front room.”
“Not sure yet. This is fine for now.”
The man led the way, snapping on the light quickly enough as though he was entirely familiar with the house.
The bed was freshly made up with a cheap flowered polyester bedspread. But Reuben found fresh sheets and pillowcases underneath and some very old but clean towels in the bathroom.
“My wife did the best she could,” said Galton. “The bank wanted the place decent, they said, soon as the police released the crime scene.”
“Gotcha,” said Reuben.
The man was cheerful and kind, but Reuben wanted this part of it all to be over.
They walked through a number of the rooms, chatted, talked about simple repairs, a doorknob here, a window painted shut there, some Sheetrock crumbling in a bathroom.
The master bedroom was indeed impressive, with its original brilliant flowered William Morris wallpaper, and the best bedroom on the front of the house.
It occupied the southwest corner, had windows on two sides and a very spacious marble bathroom with a windowed shower. The fire had been lighted there especially for Reuben, in the big deep stone hearth beneath the scrollwork mantel.
“In the old days, there was an iron stairs in that left corner,” said Galton, “that went up to the attic room above. But Felix couldn’t have that. He had to be private up there and he made his nephew and his nephew’s wife take out that stairs.” Galton enjoyed the role of tour guide. “All this is the original furniture, you know.” He pointed to the huge walnut bed. “That’s Renaissance Revival, broken-arch style. You see those urn finials? That headboard’s nine feet, solid walnut. Those are burl panels.” He gestured to the marble-top dresser. “Broken-arch style,” he said pointing to the high mirror. “And that’s the original washstand too. Berkey and Gay made this furniture in Grand Rapids. Same with that table. Don’t know where the big leather chair came from. Marchent’s father loved that chair. Had his breakfast up here every morning, with the papers. Somebody had to go get the papers. Nobody would deliver them out here. These are real American antiques. This house was built for furniture like this. It was Felix who brought in all the European furniture in the library and great room downstairs. That Felix was a Renaissance man.”
“That I can see,” said Reuben.
“We fixed up this room special for you with the best sheets. Everything
you need is in the bathroom. Those flowers on the table came from my garden,” he said.
Reuben was grateful, and he said so. “I’ll make my way here eventually,” he said. “It’s surely the best room in the house.”
“It’s the best view of the sea, from here,” Galton said. “Of course Marchent never used it. It was always her parents’ room to her. Her bedroom’s just down the hall.”
Shades of Mrs. Danvers, thought Reuben quietly. He felt one of those delicious chills to which he was becoming all the more susceptible.
This is my house now, my house
.
He wanted so badly for Phil to see this place, but he couldn’t bring Phil up here just now. That was simply out of the question.
The southeast bedroom of the house was just as quaint as the master, and so were the two central front bedrooms that faced south. These three had the heavy impressive Grand Rapids furnishings and the dazzling floral William Morris paper, but the paper was coming down in places and moldy in others, badly in need of repair. None of these bedrooms had been renovated yet, confessed Galton. Didn’t have enough electric outlets, and the fireplaces needed work. And charming as the old bathrooms were, with old pedestal sinks and claw-foot tubs, they would have been uncomfortable to use. “Felix would have gotten to all this,” said Galton, shaking his head.
Even the long wide front hallway had a neglected aspect to it with threadbare carpet.
They moved on to several other eastern bedrooms that had the American antiques as well—sometimes massive bedsteads and scatterings of old Renaissance Revival chairs.
“Now all this here is renovated,” Galton said proudly, “and all this is wired for cable, every bedroom in the place. You’ve got central heat in these rooms and working fireplaces. Felix saw to that. But Marchent never installed televisions. And the old televisions are long gone. Marchent wasn’t much of a one for television, and, well, after the boys were banned from the place, there just was no point. She brought friends here all the time, of course. Why, she brought a whole club of people here one time from South America. But they didn’t care about television. She said it was just fine.”
“You think you could mount a good flat screen for me in that master bedroom, with full cable service?” asked Reuben. “I’m a news junkie.
Get the top of the line. Wouldn’t mind a good flat screen in the library downstairs either. And maybe something small in the kitchen. As I said I cook for myself.”
“No problem, I’ll get right on it,” said Galton with obvious glee.
They went back down the oak stairs, and through the vestibule of death.
“Now, you do know I have two other fellas working with me,” said Galton, “and so they’d be in and out of here too, but one’s my cousin and one’s my stepson. It’s the same as having me. We can do just about anything you want done.”
They went back downstairs, and Galton showed Reuben proudly how the broken dining room windows had been “restored” so you could hardly tell they were not the originals. And that was no easy thing to do what with diamond-pane leaded glass like this.
Those miserable brothers had raided the little silver pantries on both sides of the broad door to the great room, dragging out silver platters and teapots and leaving them strewn all over the alcove, just to make it look like a robbery, as if anyone was stupid enough to fall for that.
“Well, all of that has been put right,” he said. He opened the doors on either side for Reuben to see. “You have plenty enough pantries in this house,” he said, “what with those two pantries, and the butler’s pantry right there before you go into the kitchen. Hope you’re looking forward to a big family and lots of kids. There’s a closet down at that other end off the hallway and that’s full of china and silver, too.”
Bracing himself Reuben followed the man into the kitchen. Very slowly, he turned to survey the floor, and discovered that the white marble had been covered by a series of oval braided throw rugs. Somewhere under all that was Marchent’s blood, probably visible in the grouting if not in the marble. He had no idea where she had fallen. He knew with all his heart he did not want to be in the room, and the idea of ladling up stew from the steaming pot on the stove was revolting to him. Revolting.
Eating right after a “death” had always revolted him. He remembered when Celeste’s brother had died in Berkeley. Reuben had not been able to eat or drink anything for days, without vomiting.
He was doing a very good job of concealing his distress. Galton was watching him, waiting.
“Look, you go ahead,” said Reuben. “I give you carte blanche on the repairs.” He opened his wallet and drew out a wad of bills. “This ought
to start things off. And stock the freezer and the pantry, you know, with all the usual stuff. I know how to defrost and cook a leg of lamb. Get me a sack or two of potatoes, carrots, and onions. I can fend for myself. You just tend to everything. The main thing with me is privacy. I ask that nobody, I mean nobody, be admitted to the place except your workmen and only then when you’re with them yourself.”
The man was pleased. He put the wad of bills in his pocket. He nodded to everything. He explained “those reporters” had been all around, snooping on the outside, but none had dared to come in, and then when the kidnapping happened, the reporters had vanished. “That’s the way it is today, with the Internet and all,” said Galton. “Everything’s a flash in the pan, though now of course they’re talking about this Man Wolf in San Francisco, and people have been calling up here, you know. The police drove by here twice earlier.”
Besides, the alarm had been connected since the police left the place. He had personally set the alarm as soon as the investigators were out. The family lawyer had seen to all that. Once that alarm was set, the entire ground floor was covered by motion detectors, glass breaker alarms, and contacts on all doors and windows.
“When that alarm goes off, it rings my house, and the local police station simultaneously. I call. They call. But no matter what they barrel on up here.”
He gave Reuben the alarm code, showed him how to punch it in, and told him there was a keypad on the second floor that he could use to take off the motion detectors before he came downstairs in the morning. “Now, if you want it on while you’re still moving around, then you punch in the code and press
HOME
, and your windows and doors are covered without the motion detectors.
“Oh, and you have to have my e-mail. I check my e-mail all day. You e-mail me about anything you find wrong up here. I’m on it.” He held up his iPhone proudly. “Oh you just call me. This phone’s right by my bed all night.”
Not to worry about the furnaces either. The old gas furnaces were relatively new, considering the age of the place, and there was absolutely no asbestos in the place. They were keeping the house at about sixty-nine degrees, which was how Marchent had liked it. Of course a lot of the vents were closed off. But wasn’t it warm enough in here now?
And by the way, there’s a cellar under this house, a small cellar, with
a stairs under the main stairs. Forgot about that. Nothing down there, however, because all the furnaces were moved out back into the service wing years ago.
“Yes, fine,” said Reuben.
The Internet service was connected too, just as Miss Marchent had had it before. The service covered the whole house. There was a router in her office and in the second-floor electrical room at the end of the hall up there.