Usher's Passing (30 page)

Rix paid no attention. He dialed Edwin's number and waited while it rang. Now maybe this cocky bastard would get his ass kicked out of Usherland. The phone continued to ring. Rix glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes before two.

"Go on, then." Logan shrugged, gave the revolver's cylinder a whirl, and then returned it to its mount. The spilled pages caught his eye, and he walked over to look down at the cardboard boxes. "Seems to me you're the one who might not be where he ought to be," Logan said. "Kinda peculiar to be studyin' books at two o'clock in the mornin', ain't it?"

Someone picked up the phone. Edwin said sleepily, "Bodane house."

At that instant, Rix realized he'd made a mistake. Of course it was Logan's job to make sure everything was locked up for the night, and the keys Edwin had given him said so. It was Rix who was in jeopardy, because how would he explain being in the library at this time of the morning, especially after Logan told of seeing Rix rummaging through the old documents? Edwin would know at once what Rix was up to, and might feel compelled by the vow he'd taken to report it either to Walen or to Margaret.

"Bodane house," Edwin repeated, with a trace of irritation.

Logan had picked up a volume out of one of the boxes, and was watching Rix sharply. Damn it! Rix thought. He put the telephone back on its cradle. "No answer," he said. "I don't want to wake them up because of
you,
anyway."

"Yeah, Edwin sleeps like a rock. I can hear him snorin' right through the wall." His gaze penetrated, and for a second Rix thought that Logan's expression indicated he saw through the lie.

"Just leave," Rix said, "and that'll be the end of it."

"What's all this stuff?" Logan nodded toward the boxes. "Scrapbooks?"

"Some of them are, yes."

"Edwin told me you write books for a livin'. What are you doin'? Research or somethin'?"

"No," Rix said, too quickly. "I just came downstairs for a book to read."

"You must be a night owl, like me. Hey! Pictures!" He reached down into one of the boxes and brought out a handful of yellowed photographs.

"Be careful with those. They're fragile."

"Yeah, they look pretty old and all." Still, he handled them as if they were as tough as tree bark. Rix could see that they were more views of the Lodge, the pictures creased and cracked, marred by the passage of time. "Big old place, ain't it?" Logan asked as he examined them. "Bet you could put about ten factories inside there. Edwin says nobody's lived in it for about forty years. How come?"

"My mother didn't choose to."

"Bet you could get lost in there," he said, and Rix tensed. "Bet it's got all kinds of secret rooms and stuff. You ever been inside?"

"Once. A long time ago."

"Edwin says he's going to take me in. Going to show me how you Ushers used to live. I've heard you people threw some mighty strange shindigs inside there."

How Edwin planned to smooth this cretin's rough edges, Rix didn't know. His manner of speech grated on Rix's nerves. He probably had, at best, a high-school education. It was ridiculous to think this boy could fill Edwin's shoes! "Why don't you leave now?" Rix asked him.

Logan put the photographs down on the desk and stared at him for a silent moment. Behind his shoulder, Rix saw, was Hudson's portrait. Both of them were staring at him. Then Logan blinked and said, "You don't like me very much, do you?"

"Right."

"Why not? Because Edwin wants me to learn the ropes?"

"You've got it. I don't think you're capable. You're arrogant, rude, and slovenly, and I don't think you give a kick about working on Usherland. I believe you saw this as a way to get off the assembly line. Within a month after Edwin retires, I think you'll take whatever you can get your hands on and run off with it."

"Now why should I do that? This looks to me like a pretty cushy job. Oh, there's a lot of work to be done and all, but it's mostly organizin' other people and makin' sure they're not layin' around. Edwin says the secret to success is in lettin' everybody know you're boss, but not pushin' too hard. He says the trick is
anticipatin'
problems, knowin' how to take care of them before they crop up. The pay's good, I get my own house and car, and I get to drive that big limo. Why should I run off from all that?"

"Because," Rix replied evenly, "you're not cut out for the job. I don't care if you're a Bodane or not. You haven't got Edwin's style or education. You know that as well as I do, and why Edwin can't see it I don't understand."

"I can do the job. Maybe I'm not as smooth as Edwin, but I can do it. I worked my ass off on that assembly line, and two years in a row I won the highest-production trophy. Nobody's ever accused me of not tryin'. Whatever Edwin teaches me, I'll learn, and I'll do a damned good job."

"That remains to be seen."

Logan shrugged; he'd said all he cared to say, and Rix's opinion clearly didn't concern him. He moved to the door, then stopped and glanced back. "If you go out on the grounds at night," he said quietly, "you'd best be real careful."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You never know what might be out there in the dark. I've heard that all kinds of animals run wild in them woods. Old Greediguts might decide he wants you for a midnight snack. Or you might run right into the Pumpkin Man. So if you want to go walkin' after dark—you'd best just call me first." He smiled thinly. " 'Night, Mr. Usher." And then he left the library, closing the doors behind him.

Rix scowled and uttered a soft curse. He knew that the local people referred to the mythical black panther that roamed Briartop as Greediguts; only a few hunters had ever glimpsed the thing, and they were so hysterical that their accounts—written up in the
Democrat,
of course—took on ludicrous proportions. The creature was supposed to be as big as a car, and to move so fast that it was only a blur. One poor soul who'd "seen" Greediguts at close range swore that it was not totally a black panther, but it was a weird combination of predatory cat and reptile. The thing supposedly had the tail of a rattlesnake, the cold, lidless eyes of a lizard, and a forked tongue that flashed like quicksilver from its mouth. If there
was
a panther up there, Rix thought, it was probably some old, broken-down descendant of the animals that had fled Erik Usher's zoo the night he had—for unknown reasons— set it aflame.

Rix, unnerved by Logan's intrusion, picked up a couple of books at random from one of the boxes. There were some old letters tied up with rubber bands, and he took those, too. Then he looked through the photographs Logan had set on the desk.

Included with the exterior views were pictures of some of the Lodge's rooms. They were massive chambers decorated with oversized leather or fur-covered furniture, medieval tapestries and suits of armor, hunting trophies, huge crystal chandeliers, and fireplaces large enough to park a truck in. On the backs of the photographs, identifications of the rooms were written in faded black ink: Guest's Parlor, Breakfast Room, Second-Floor Sitting Room, and Main Gallery. The Nautical Room was filled with ship models, ship's wheels, portholes, and other maritime fixtures. Stuffed polar bears stood in menacing postures, and fake icicles hung from the white ceiling in the Arctic Room. On the walls of the cavernous Gun Room hung hundreds of examples of Usher pistols and rifles, and at the center of the room was a charging stuffed buffalo.

Rix came to the photograph—badly cracked and faded—of a little girl sitting at a huge white grand piano. Her fingers were poised over the keyboard, her face smiling toward the camera. The child was wearing a ruffled dress with long sleeves, her high-topped shoes dangling over the piano's pedals. She had long, shining dark hair and lively almond-shaped eyes that revealed her Oriental heritage. Her face seemed carved from a beautiful piece of ivory. On the back, in strong, even printing, was written simply "My Angel." Rix knew it had to be a picture of Shann Usher, Aram's daughter by an Oriental wife.

But it was the next photograph that fully riveted Rix's attention.

It showed Erik sitting in a chair covered with thick white fur. The ebony cane was propped against the chair, and Erik regarded the camera like a king facing a commoner. On Erik's left knee sat a boy who appeared to be four or five years old, dressed in a dark suit with a little striped bow tie. The child, blond and curly-haired, was smiling gleefully and reaching toward the lens.

And standing behind Erik was a tall blond woman with a lovely but strained face, her eyes dark and haunted, as though by some inner sadness. Her hair was upswept, secured by a diamond tiara. In her arms she cradled an infant, probably not more than a year old.

Rix turned the picture over. It was inscribed "Walen and Simms. August, 1923" in Erik's spidery handwriting.

My God! Rix thought. He could see his father's eyes in the little boy's face. The mass of curly hair glowed with light and health. But who was Simms? The infant in the woman's arms? Was that Nora St. Clair Usher, cradling a
second
child? Simms was an ambiguous name—was the child male or female?

It was the first time Rix had ever seen the name. Was this a picture, then, of Walen's younger sibling? Rix had always thought Walen was an only child. What had happened to this infant, and why had Walen never mentioned Simms?

The eyes of Nora Usher, if that was who this was, pierced him. She was as beautiful as he had imagined, but something in her face was empty—drained of life. By contrast, Erik's gaze mirrored an indolent, self-satisfied boredom.

Rix slipped the photograph into one of the books he carried. He wanted to find out more about Simms. Was it possible he had a living aunt or uncle he'd never even heard of before?

The unanswered questions were multiplying, and Rix realized the immensity of sorting through all the materials for his research. He had to see Dunstan's manuscript! He switched off the lights and left the library, locking the door behind him. In the safety of his bedroom, he examined his father's beaming face in the photograph, and was amazed as a knot of sadness formed in his throat. Walen Usher was human, after all. He'd once been a smiling child, unaware of what the future held for him. What had turned him into the decaying monster that lay upstairs? Simply the passage of time—or something more?

When Rix finally slept—restlessly, jarred by the rush and call of the wind—the dreams came to him.

He was lost again in the winding hallways of the Lodge, and he could feel its immense tonnage poised over him like a fist about to smash down. Ahead in the gloom was a single closed door, and as Rix approached it he saw the floating silver circle with its embossed, roaring lion's face. He watched his arm telescope out, saw his hand close around the circle; it was freezing cold, and began to shrink in size.

The door came open, and inside, the skeleton with bloody eyeholes swung like a macabre pendulum, lit by a flickering reddish light. There was blood all over the floor, streaming in thick rivulets. Rix recoiled and tried to scream, but his voice wouldn't work anymore. He had the sense of something coming down the corridor behind him, something large and dark and monstrous, rushing toward him with hideous speed.

And then Boone pushed the plastic bones aside and peered through the door with a sadistic grin on his face. "There you go, Rixy!" he crowed. "Peed your pants, didn't ya!"

Rix sat up in the dark. There was a sweat on his face, and he was shaking. The wind bumped and growled outside the house. He got out of bed, bracing himself for an attack if it should come.

The noise of the wind changed, and in it Rix thought he heard his name called: a soft whisper, as of a parent to a child, and then it was gone. He looked up and through the window, toward where the Lodge stood in the seething darkness.

Ten billion dollars,
the voice in his mind whispered.
All the money in the world.

He shivered; his head was aching, but the attack never came. I'm getting better, he thought.

Ten billion dollars.

When he was sure he was going to make it without an attack, he returned to bed—and then time slept in a dreamless void.