Usher's Passing (43 page)

Keil Bodane, old Whitt's son, reached the room first. He rushed toward Aram, took the infant in his arms, turned him upside down, and whacked him hard on the back. Whacked him again. And a third time.

A gurgling cough burst from the baby's throat. Something clinked on the floor and rolled away. Then Ludlow howled as if trying to wake the dead. Sobbing, Cynthia took him and rocked him in her arms.

"What's this?" Aram bent to the floor, picked up something, and held it to the light. Cynthia saw the glint of silver—and the breath halted in her own lungs. " 'The Willows,' " he read from the coin. " 'Room Number Four. Cindy.' " When he looked up at her, his face was already freezing into the hard mask that he would wear for the rest of his life. "Explain to me," he whispered, "how a whorehouse token almost strangled my son to death."

Wheeler Dunstan watched Rix carefully. "Cynthia must have missed one of the tokens when she was gathering them up. The thing had lodged somewhere in the baby's crib. Ludlow swallowed it. And so her secret was out. When she was sixteen years old, she was a working prostitute at a whorehouse in New Orleans."

"What happened? Did Aram divorce her?"

"Nope. I think he really loved her, very much. He'd been married once before, to a Chinese girl in San Francisco, and he had a daughter by her: Shann, who in 1858 was twelve years old and studying music in Paris. But. he admired Cynthia's business ability and of course he adored Ludlow. A divorce would've ruined Cynthia socially, and probably financially, too."

"What about Tigré? If he had such a hold on her, he wouldn't give up so easily, would he?"

"Aram found him at the Crockett Hotel—it stood where the Crockett Mall is now—and publicly challenged him to a duel. Of course, dueling was against the law, but Aram Usher had connections in high places. Cynthia begged him not to fight, because Randolph Tigré was an expert shot, but he wouldn't listen. They met in a field not too far from here. Tigré even brought the cane. They were to fight with gold-plated Usher pistols." Dunstan smoked for a moment in silence. "It was no contest. Tigré shot him between the eyes, and Aram Usher fell dead on the spot."

"And then Tigré went after Cynthia again?"

"No," Dunstan replied. "Aram loved her; he wanted to protect both her and the boy. When Keil Bodane checked Aram's pistol, he found it was unloaded. It had
never been
loaded. In essence, Aram had committed suicide—and Randolph Tigré, a black man with a gambler's reputation, had committed murder. Tigré was forced to flee the state. In death, Aram had won. His will provided that Cynthia take over the armaments business and the estate, but it would all go to Ludlow on his eighteenth birthday."

"What about the cane?" Rix asked. "How did it get back into the family?"

"That's another question I can't answer. Ludlow retrieved it—but how, I don't know." He took the pipe from his mouth and held it between his palms. "There are a lot of questions that need answers. Sometimes I think I'll never find them. This book is important to me—damned important." Dunstan clenched his hands together, knots of muscle standing up in his forearms. "Maybe I've spent six years workin' on it, but it's been in my mind for a long time."

"Ever since the accident?" Rix ventured. "Edwin told me about it. I'm sorry."

"Fine," Dunstan said bitterly. "You're sorry about it, my wife is dead, my daughter has deep emotional and physical scars, I'm crippled—and Walen Usher sat behind a wall of lawyers who said I was drunk when we crashed. He went home to his Lodge, and I had to fight with every ounce of strength in my body just to keep my newspaper. I saw how the Usher mind worked—take what you please, when you please, and the consequences be damned. From that point on, I wanted to find out everything I could about you Ushers. I'm going to finish this book, no matter what your family throws at me—and then, by God, people will know the truth: that you Ushers have the moral sense of maggots and no conscience at all, and you'll sell your souls for the almighty dollar."

Rix started to protest, then reconsidered. His presence here, he realized, was proof of what the man had said; morally, he was betraying his family in pursuit of the money and recognition this book might bring him. Still, what choice did he have? If he wanted control of this project, he first had to control Dunstan's trust. "How can I help you?" he asked calmly.

The other man stared at him in silence, trying to make up his mind. "Okay," he said finally. "If you really want to help, I'll give you the chance. As I said, I need some questions answered: How did Ludlow get the cane back? How did Cynthia Usher die, and when? What happened to Shann?" His eyes were icy with determination. "Ludlow was a young genius with a photographic memory. I've read that he built a workshop somewhere in the Lodge's basement for his inventions. What were they? Then there's another question—a larger one, and probably the most important of all."

"What?"

Dunstan smiled slightly, with a trace of arrogance. "You find me the other answers first. Then we'll talk again."

"And you'll show me the manuscript?"

"Maybe," Dunstan said.

Rix nodded, and rose to leave. For now, he'd have to play this game Dunstan's way. "I'll be back," he promised, and went to the door.

"Rix?" Dunstan called after him. Rix paused. "You be careful,"

Dunstan told him. "You don't know Walen the way I do."

Rix left the house and went to his car under a sky dappled with gathering clouds.

RIX
DROVE PAST THE GATEHOUSE AFTER LEAVING DUNSTAN'S, HEADING
toward the Lodge. He was in no hurry to return to the house, where masking tape had been placed over all the light switches. He would have to do his searching in the library tonight by candlelight. Walen's stench was getting stronger, it ambushed Rix from around corners, crept under doors, and permeated the clothes in his closet. At the breakfast table, when Rix had announced what Walen wanted done, Margaret had sat like a statue with her fork halfway to her mouth; she'd blinked slowly, lowered the fork, and looked across the table at him as if he'd lost his mind.

Katt had been shaken as well. "You mean we've got to live in the
dark?"

"That's what he told me. We can use candles, of course. We've got enough silver candelabras around here to light up a cathedral."

"Not one electric light?" Margaret had asked in a soft, strained voice. The glassy sheen on her eyes worried Rix; she looked close to a nervous breakdown. "Not
one?"

"I'm sorry. He said no electric lights or appliances of any kind, except those in the kitchen."

"Yes," she murmured. "Yes, of course. Otherwise, how would we eat?"

"I'm surprised Dad didn't call
you
in to deliver the message," Rix had told Katt. "I didn't think he trusted me that much."

Katt had showed him a twitch of a smile. "That's because he knows how much I hate the dark," she'd said nervously. "I have to sleep with the lights on. He knows that. It's stupid, I know, but. . . the dark scares me. It's like . . . death closing in around me or something."

"Come on, it won't be that bad. We'll have candles. We can all walk around like we're in a Vincent Price movie."

"Trust you to think of it that way!" Margaret had snapped at him. "We're in a dire emergency, and you make tasteless jokes! My God!" Her voice got higher and more shrill. "Your father's sick, and you make jokes! This family is in crisis, and you make jokes! Did you make a joke when you found your wife dead in the bathtub?"

By sheer willpower, Rix had stopped himself from smashing his breakfast plate against the wall. He'd forced his food down and gotten out of the room as soon as he could.

He saw the Lodge's chimneys and lightning rods through the thinning trees, and he involuntarily slowed the Thunderbird. When he reached the bridge, he braked the car and sat with the engine idling. Before him, the bridge's paving stones showed the wear and tear of a hundred years of hooves, carriage wheels, and automobile tires. Black lake water was ruffled by the wind, and ducks fed on reeds in the rocky shallows.

The mountainous Lodge, with its bricked-up windows, stood like the silent centerpiece of Usherland. What secrets had it watched over? Rix wondered. What secrets did it still contain?

He heard the high whine of the Jetcopter approaching, and looked up as it roared over the Lodge and veered toward the Gatehouse helipad. Frightened birds rose from the trees and fled. Who was coming in this time? The two men he'd seen a few days before? If Walen permitted them to use the Jetcopter at a time when he couldn't stand noise, then they were obviously important to him. Walen was working on his last project—what was it? What had he been researching in the old books?

A movement near the Lodge caught his attention. There was a palomino horse tied up Under the stone porte-cochere that guarded the Lodge's main entrance. Spooked by the helicopter's noise, it was pulling at its tether. The reins held fast, though, and after a minute or so the beautiful animal settled down.

Someone was inside the Lodge, Rix thought. Boone? Katt? What were they doing in there, prowling around in the dark?

Rix's hands tightened around the wheel. He guided the Thunderbird forward a few feet, onto the bridge, and stopped again. Then a few more feet—at a crawl, as if he feared the stones might collapse beneath him. At the bridge's midpoint, Rix felt sweat trickling down under his arms. The Lodge seemed to fill up the horizon. When he reached the far end of the bridge, he saw that the face of the Lodge was covered with minute cracks. In some places, chunks of stone and marble had toppled to the ground. The decaying carcasses of birds lay around the bases of the walls, their feathers caught like snowflakes in the untrimmed hedges and flowerbeds. Ornamental statues of fauns, centaurs, Gorgons, and other mythological creatures stood around the island, guarding marble fountains, meandering pathways, and overgrown gardens. Rix peered up through the windshield at the array of gargoyles and statues that decorated the upper ledges of the house. From the rooftop more than a hundred feet above, the stone lions watched him approach.

The Lodge was clearly in need of attention. Vines were snaking up the walls, probing into cracks and crevices. Black stains indicated water seepage. The driveway was pitted with holes, and the island's expensive grass had eroded away to show the rough, rocky soil beneath.

Rix stopped the car. He hadn't been this close to the Lodge since he was a little boy; he was amazed to find his feeling of irrational fear slowly changing to a sense of awe. No matter what he'd thought of the Lodge, he knew it had once been a stunning masterpiece. The craftsmanship that had gone into the gargoyles, finials, arches, balconies, foliations, and turrets was truly majestic; much of the work probably couldn't be duplicated today at any price. How much would a house like the Lodge be worth? Rix wondered. Thirty million dollars? At least that much, without one stick of furniture. He guided the car beneath the porte-cochere. The palomino was tied to one of several iron hitching posts near the sweeping stone stairway that led to the massive oak front door. Rix cut the engine, but did not leave the car. The front door was wide open. Above it was a green-and-black marble representation of the Usher crest: three rearing lions separated by bendlets.

Rix didn't have long to wait. In less than ten minutes, Boone, carrying a bull's-eye lantern, came through the doorway. He stopped abruptly when he saw the Thunderbird; then he recovered, pulled the door shut and descended the stairs.

Rix rolled his window down. "What's going on?" His voice quavered; in the presence of the Lodge he was a jittery fool.

Boone kicked away dead leaves that had been blown onto the steps. "What're you doin', Rixy?" he asked without looking at his brother. "Spyin' on me?"

"No. Are you doing something worth spying on?"

"Don't be cute," Boone said sharply. "I thought you stayed away from the Lodge."

"I do. I saw your horse from the shore."

"And so you drove across the bridge to have a look, huh?" Boone smiled slyly. "Or did you want to have a closer look at the Lodge?"

"Maybe both. What were you doing inside there?"

"Nothin'. I come over here sometimes, to walk and look around. No harm in that, is there?"

"Aren't you afraid of getting lost?"

"I ain't afraid of
nothin'.
Besides," he said, "I know my way around the first floor. It's simple when you figure out how the corridors run."