Usher's Passing (35 page)

Dunstan's study was a small, windowless room paneled in pine, with a concrete floor and a tile ceiling. Metal bookshelves that took up almost every inch of wall space held thick leatherbound volumes. Books, newspapers, and magazines stood in stacks around Dunstan's desk; atop the desk, amid a scatter of books and papers on a worn-looking brown blotter, were a telephone, a green-shaded high-intensity lamp—and a word processor, hooked up to a daisy-wheel printer.

"On those shelves are one hundred and thirty years of the
Foxton Democrat,"
Dunstan explained. "Every issue mentions the Ushers at least once. I've interviewed about sixty former Usher servants, groundskeepers, carpenters, and painters. Of course. Raven does my legwork for me."

"You're writing the book on a word processor?"

"That's right. Was doing the thing on a typewriter, but I bought this two years ago. It helps me with my research, too. A lot of libraries in major cities are hooked up to a computer network that lets you go through old genealogical records, rare-document collections, and church records. Whatever I need copies of, my friends at the Asheville library can get for me."

Rix looked at a stack of magazines next to the desk. There were back issues of
Time, Newsweek, Forbes, Business Week,
and others—all containing, Rix assumed, some fact, fiction, or fancy about the Ushers. On the man's desk were a few musty-looking books and some yellowed pieces of paper covered with ornate, feminine handwriting.

Letters, Rix thought. He pretended to be examining the word processor, but his glance veered toward the letters. He caught the words "Dearest Erik" on one piece of paper.

"That's the tour," Dunstan said suddenly. His voice betrayed an edge of tension, as if he realized what Rix had seen.

Rix heard the wheelchair motor whine as Dunstan approached him; but by then Rix had picked up the letter and sniffed at the paper. The scent of faded perfume was familiar. Lavender. The letter was from the same woman who'd adored Erik's whipping techniques. "Where did you get this?" Rix asked, turning toward Wheeler Dunstan.

"From an ex-servant who kept some of Erik's documents. The man lives in Georgia." He reached up to take it, but Rix held the letter away from him.

"That's bullshit. All the family records, documents, and letters are kept locked in the Lodge's basement, and they've been down there for years. No servant would've dared to keep anything that belonged to the family." He stopped, realizing the truth from Dunstan's grim, haughty expression. "You got this from Usherland, didn't you?"

Dunstan's chin lifted a few notches higher. "I've shown you what you wanted to see. You can leave now."

"No. This letter—hell,
all
these letters!—came from Usherland. I want to know how you got them off the estate." As Dunstan stared at him defiantly, Rix felt a hammerblow of realization. "There's a spy on the inside, isn't there? Collecting letters and whatever else he can get his hands on? Who is it?"

"You don't really want to know," Dunstan replied. "Not really. Now leave, why don't you? Our business is over."

"What are you going to do? Call the sheriff to
make
me leave?"

"Rix," Raven said, "please—"

"I knew it was a damned fool mistake to let him come here!" Dunstan raged to his daughter. "We didn't need him! Shitfire!"

"You'll tell me who it is," Rix demanded.

Dunstan's face tightened. In his eyes was scorching fury. "Don't you
dare
use that tone of voice to me, boy!" he shouted. "You're not at Usherland now, you're in
my
house! You don't snap your fingers and make me jump, you little—" "Dad," Raven interrupted, putting both hands on his knotty shoulders. "Calm down, now, come on."

"You don't order me around," Dunstan told Rix, though his voice had lost some of its power. "You hear me?"

"The name." Rix continued as if the outburst had never happened. "I want it."

"I know all about your childhood, boy. I know things about you that you'd rather forget. I know how Boone used to beat you up, and how Walen whipped you with a belt till you bled." His eyes had become fierce slits. "I know you hate Walen Usher as much as I do, boy. You don't really want that name. Just go. Take the letters, if you want 'em."

"The name," Rix repeated.

When it was spat out to him, Rix's knees almost buckled.

LATE AFTERNOON SHADOWS WERE DEEPENING ACROSS USHERLAND AS
Rix walked from the garage to the Bodane house. He knocked heavily at the door and waited for an answer.

Edwin looked dapper and fresh, though he'd put in a full day's work. He was wearing neither his cap nor his gray blazer, but instead a pinstriped blue shirt with his dark, razor-creased trousers. The shirt was open at the neck, showing a wisp of white hair. "Rix!" he said. "Where have you been all afternoon? I was looking for—"

"Is Cass here?" Rix interrupted.

"No. She's over at the Gatehouse, cooking dinner. Is something wrong?"

Rix stepped into the house. "How about Logan? Is he around?"

Edwin shook his head. "He's been working at the stables today. I expect him here in about fifteen minutes, though. What's going on?" He closed the door and waited for Rix to explain.

The younger man walked across the parlor to warm his hands before a small fire that crackled in the hearth. Alongside Edwin's favorite easy chair was this afternoon's edition of the Asheville paper. A mug of hot tea steamed on the little oak table beside the chair, and there was a scratchpad and a pen. Edwin had been doing the crossword puzzle.

"It's going to be cold tonight," Rix said; his voice sounded hollow in the large room. "The wind's already started to pick up."

"Yes, I noticed. Can I get you something? I've got some jasmine tea, if you'd—"

"No. Nothing, thank you."

Edwin walked to the table, picked up his mug, and sipped at the tea. Over the rim, his eyes were alert and watchful.

"I know about Wheeler Dunstan," Rix finally said. "Damn it, Edwin!" His gaze flared. "Why didn't you tell me you were helping him research that book of his?"

"Oh." It was spoken in a whisper. "I see."

"I don't. Dunstan told me you've been bringing him materials from the Lodge's library since August. And there I sat, telling Cass about how I wanted to do a history of the family, and she was talking about vows of loyalty!"

"Loyalty," Edwin repeated softly. "That has an ominous sound, doesn't it? Rather like the sound of a key turning in a cell door. Cass doesn't know, Rix. I don't want her to know, ever."

"But what was all that crap about tradition? About ties to the past and all that? I don't understand why you're helping Dunstan!"

Edwin suddenly looked very tired and old, and the sight of him standing in the fading golden light almost broke Rix's heart. Edwin took a long, deep breath and eased himself into his chair. "Where shall I begin, then?"

"How about the beginning?"

"Easily said." He smiled bitterly. The lines around his eyes were deep. He stared into the fire, focusing on nothing. "I'm sick," he said. "I'm sick to death of . . . dark things.
Evil
things, Rix. Hurts and secrets and rattling bones in chains. Oh, I knew what went on here when I was a boy. It didn't bother me then. I considered it exciting. See, I was just like Logan. Just as arrogant, just as . . . stupid, really. I had to learn for myself, and, oh God, what an education I've gotten!"

"What kind of dark things? What do you mean?"

"Spiritual darkness. Moral darkness. Blasphemy and decay." His eyes closed. "Poe's tale may have been fiction, Rix, but it cut very close to the bone. The Ushers have everything.
Everything.
But they
are dead in their souls. I've known it for a long time, and I cannot take that knowledge very much longer." His voice cracked; he paused, gathering strength to speak again.

"I still don't understand."

Edwin's eyes opened. They were as red as the embers in the fire. "When your father passes away," he said, "the Usher empire is going to be torn to pieces. Walen will die soon. Perhaps a matter of days. Or hours. He wants to pass the estate and business to Kattrina; I'm sure you know that by now. Boone expects it to go to him. He'll fight Kattrina in court. It'll be a prolonged, messy affair. Boone can't win, of course, but he'll do everything in his power to discredit Kattrina. He's money-mad, Rix. He loses upwards of five thousand dollars every night in poker games. He bets twenty-five thousand dollars on one play of a football game. It doesn't mean a damned thing to him, because he knows he can always get more. Mr. Usher gives him an allowance of three hundred thousand a year, and whenever Boone wants an advance, he simply writes out an IOU to your father. But Boone gambles it all away. In court, he's going to smear your sister with her drug problems. He'll go to every smut-sheet in this country, trying to ruin her."

When he picked up the mug again, his hand was unsteady. "Kattrina can't take that kind of pressure, Rix. She thinks she can, but she's wrong. I know. I've watched her grow up. By the time Boone is finished with her, Kattrina will be ready for an institution—or a coffin."

"Are you suggesting that Dad should change his mind and give the estate and business to Boone?"

"No! God, no. Boone would destroy the business. He shouldn't be allowed to run loose. Of course, Puddin' doesn't help matters. She's a further complication in a very sticky web."

"What does all this have to do with Wheeler Dunstan's book?" Rix asked.

"I'm explaining my frame of mind. Please be patient. In any event, Usher Armaments is on the verge of total disaster. Without a guiding hand, it'll be ripped apart by other arms companies and conglomerates. They're waiting in the wings right now. The family will never be poor, but without the business they'll be stripped of power."

"That might be the best thing that ever happened to us."

"It might be," Edwin agreed. "Though if Usher Armaments is lost, so is a great chance for world peace."

"What?
Surely you don't believe that."

"Yes," he said, "I do. Most strongly. The Usher name stands for power and reliability. In itself, it is a great deterrent to hostile foreign countries. If the production of weapons systems using Usher technology is stopped and the older systems are outdated— which they most certainly will be—then the world may be primed for disaster. I'm no weaponry expert, and I abhor war as much as any man alive, but the question remains: Do we dare to
stop
producing the missiles and bombs? I used to have faith in mankind, Rix. That was when I was much younger and more foolish. Listen to me go on! I must sound like a total damned idiot."

"The book," Rix reminded him. "Why are you helping Dunstan research it?"

"Because I'm tired of pretending that I have no eyes nor ears, nor mouth to speak. I'm tired of being an appliance, or a coatrack, or a piece of furniture. I'm a human being!" He announced it with dignity, though his eyes were glazed. "I've seen many things in my lifetime, Rix. Most of them I could do nothing about, though they turned my stomach and made my blood freeze." He leaned forward in his chair. "I'll tell you what happened to my loyalty, if you like. If you really want to hear it."

"Go ahead."

"All right." He folded his hands before him, lost in thought. "You've seen Wheeler Dunstan. He's crippled. His daughter—a lovely woman—has a scar across one eyebrow, and she walks with a limp. I know how that came to be."

"I'm listening."

"Good. I
want
you to listen. I want you to understand what happened to my loyalty. In November of 1964, Wheeler Dunstan and his daughter and wife were involved in an automobile accident on the Interstate south of Asheville. They'd gone to visit the wife's family for Thanksgiving, as I recall. In any event, the accident was . . . very bad. A diesel truck swerved into their lane, skidded on ice, and slammed into the car. Dunstan's spine was injured, the little girl's leg and arm were broken, the wife suffered numerous internal injuries and fractures. But the worst part is that the car had gone up
underneath
the truck. It was pinned there, and the police couldn't get them out. As I understand it, Dunstan's wife was in hideous agony. The little girl was crushed against her, and had to listen to her mother sob and scream for hours, until the wreckage could be unsnarled. Dunstan's wife lingered in the hospital for several days before she died. He went through months of therapy before he could even use a wheelchair. I suppose Raven came out the best, though God only knows what she sees in her nightmares."