Lasher

by Anne Rice

  "Well, that's old news. That's no good. Nothing new is what I meant."

  "Nothing new."

  "This companion of hers, what did he look like?" Lark asked.

  Lightner's expression darkened slightly. Was this weariness or bitterness? Lark was baffled.

  "Oh, you know more about him now than I do, don't you?" asked Lightner. "Rowan sent you X-ray film, printouts of electroencephalograms, all of that sort of thing. Didn't she send a picture?"

  "No, she didn't," Lark said. "Who are you people, really?"

  "You know, Dr. Larkin, I don't honestly know the answer to that question. I suppose I never have. I'm just more frank with myself about it these days. Things happen. New Orleans works its spell on people. So do the Mayfairs. I was guessing on the tests; you might say I was trying to read your mind."

  Lark laughed. All this had been said so agreeably, and so philosophically. Lark sympathized with this man suddenly. In the dim light of the car, he also noticed things about him. That Lightner suffered from mild emphysema and that he had never smoked, and probably never been a drinker, and was fairly hale in a decade of programmed fragility--his eighties.

  Lightner smiled, and looked out the window. The driver of the car was a mere dark shape behind the blackened glass.

  Lark realized the car was loaded with all the standard amenities--the little television set, and the soft drinks tucked into ice in pockets on the middle doors.

  What about coffee? When would they have coffee?

  "There in the carafe," said Lightner.

  "Ah, you read my mind," Lark said with a little laugh.

  "It's that time of morning, isn't it?" said Lightner, and for the first time there was a little smile on his lips. He watched Lark open the carafe and discover the plastic cup in the side pocket. Lark poured the steaming coffee.

  "You want some, Lightner?"

  "No, thank you. Do you want to tell me what your friend Mitch Flanagan has found out?"

  "Not particularly. I don't want to tell anyone but Rowan. I called Ryan Mayfair for the money. That's what Rowan instructed me to do. But she didn't say anything about giving anybody the test results. She said she'd contact me when she could. And Ryan Mayfair says that Rowan may be hurt. Maybe even dead."

  "That's true," said Lightner. "It was good of you to come."

  "Hell, I'm worried about Rowan. I wasn't too happy when Rowan left University. I wasn't too happy that she up and got married. I wasn't too happy that she left medicine. In fact, I was as astonished as if somebody had said, 'The world ends today at three o'clock.' I didn't believe it all, until Rowan herself told me over and over."

  "I remember. She called you often last fall. She was very concerned about your disapproval." It was said mildly like everything else. "She wanted your advice on the creation of Mayfair Medical. She was sure that when you realized she was serious about the center you would understand why she was no longer practicing, that there was a great deal involved."

  "Then you are a friend of hers, aren't you? I mean not this Talamasca necessarily, but you."

  "I think I was her friend. I may have failed her. I don't know. Maybe she failed me." There was a hint of bitterness to it, maybe even anger. Then the man smiled pleasantly again.

  "I have to confess something to you, Mr. Lightner," said Lark, "I thought this Mayfair Medical was a pipe dream. Rowan caught me off guard. But I've since done a little investigating of my own. Obviously this family has the resources to create Mayfair Medical. I just didn't know. I should have known, I suppose. Everybody was talking about it. Rowan is the smartest and best surgeon I ever trained."

  "I'm sure she is. Did she tell you anything about the specimens when she talked to you? You said she called from Geneva and that was February twelfth."

  "Again, I want to talk to Ryan, next of kin. Talk to the husband, see what is the right thing to do."

  "The specimens ought to have everyone at the Keplinger Institute quite astonished," said Lightner. "I wish you would tell me the full extent of what Rowan sent. Let me explain my interest. Was Rowan herself in ill health when she spoke to you? Did she send any sort of medical material that pertained to her?"

  "Yes, she did send samples of her own blood and tissue, but there's no evidence she was sick."

  "Just different."

  "Yeah, I dare say. Different. You are right on that."

  Lightner nodded. He looked off again, out over what appeared to be a great sprawling cemetery, full of little marble houses with pointed roofs. The car sped on in the sparse traffic. There seemed so much space here. So much quiet. There was a seedy look to things, even a botched look. But Lark liked the openness, the sense of not being hampered by a moving traffic jam as he was always at home.

  "Lightner, my position on this is really difficult," he said. "Whether you are her friend or not."

  They were turning off already, gliding down past an old brick church steeple that seemed perilously close to the descending ramp. Lark felt relief when they reached the street, shabby though it was. Again, he liked the spacious feeling of things here, though all was a bit forlorn. Things moved slowly here. The South. A town.

  "I know all that, Dr. Larkin," said Lightner. "I understand. I know all about confidentiality and medical ethics. I know about manners and decency. People here know all about them. It's rather nice, being here. We don't have to talk about Rowan now if you don't want to. Let's have breakfast at the hotel, shall we? Perhaps you want to take a nap. We can meet at the First Street house later. It's just a few blocks away. The family has arranged everything for you."

  "You know this is really very very serious," said Lark suddenly. The car had come to a halt. They were in front of a little hotel with smart blue awnings. A doorman stood ready to open the limousine door.

  "Of course it is," said Aaron Lightner. "But it's also very simple. Rowan gave birth to this strange child. Indeed, as we both know, he is not a child. He is the male companion seen with her in Scotland. What we want to know now is can he reproduce? Can he breed with his mother or with other human beings? Reproduction is the only real concern of evolution, isn't it? If he was a simple one-and-only mutation, something created by external forces--radiation say, or some sort of telekinetic ability--well, we wouldn't be all that concerned, would we? We might just catch up with him and ascertain whether or not Rowan is remaining with him of her own free will, and then...shoot him. Perhaps."

  "You know all about it, don't you?"

  "No, not all about it. That's the disturbing thing. But I know this. If Rowan sent you those samples, it was because Rowan was afraid this thing could breed. Let's go inside, shall we? I'd like to call the family about this incident in Destin. I'd also like to call the Talamasca about Stolov. I have rooms here too, you see. You might call it my New Orleans headquarters. I rather like the place."

  "Sure, let's go."

  Before they reached the desk, Lark had regretted the small valise and the one change of clothes. He wasn't going to be leaving here so soon. He knew it. The dim feeling of something unwholesome and menacing warred in him with a new surge of excitement. He liked this little lobby, the amiable southern voices surrounding him, the tall, elegant black man in the elevator.

  Yes, he would have to do some shopping. But that was fine. Lightner had the key in hand. The suite was ready for Lark. And Lark was ready for breakfast.

  Yeah, she was afraid of that all right, Lark thought, as they went up in the elevator. She had even said something like, If this thing can breed...

  Of course he hadn't known then what the hell she was talking about. But she'd known. Anyone else, you might think this was a hoax or something. But not Rowan Mayfair.

  Well, he was too hungry just now to think about it anymore.

  Eight

  IT WAS NOT her custom to speak into the phone when she answered it. She would pick up the receiver, hold it to her ear; then if someone spoke, someone she knew, perhaps she would answer.

  Ryan knew this. An
d he said immediately into the silence: "Ancient Evelyn, something dreadful has happened."

  "What is it, son?" she asked, identifying herself with an uncommon warmth. Her voice sounded frail and small to her, not the voice of herself which she had always known.

  "They've found Gifford on the beach at Destin. They said--" Ryan's voice broke and he could not continue. Then Ryan's son, Pierce, came on the line and he said that he and his father were driving up together. Ryan came back on the phone. Ryan told her she must stay with Alicia, that Alicia would go mad when she "heard."

  "I understand," said Ancient Evelyn. And she did. Gifford wasn't merely hurt. Gifford was dead. "I will find Mona," she said softly. She did not know if they even heard.

  Ryan said something vague and confused and rushed, that they would call her later, that Lauren was calling "the family." And then the conversation was finished, and Ancient Evelyn put down the phone and went to the closet for her walking stick.

  Ancient Evelyn did not much like Lauren Mayfair. Lauren Mayfair was a brittle, arrogant lawyer in Ancient Evelyn's book, a sterile, frosty businesswoman of the worst sort who had always preferred legal documents to people. But she would be fine for calling everyone. Except for Mona. And Mona was not here, and Mona had to be told.

  Mona was up at the First Street house. Ancient Evelyn knew it. Perhaps Mona was searching for that Victrola and the beautiful pearls.

  Ancient Evelyn had known all night that Mona was out. But she never really had to worry about Mona. Mona would do all the things in life that everyone wanted to do. She would do them for her grandmother Laura Lee and for her mother, CeeCee, and for Ancient Evelyn herself. She would do them for Gifford...

  Gifford dead. No, that did not seem possible, or likely. Why did I not feel it when it happened? Why didn't I hear her voice?

  Back to the practical things. Ancient Evelyn stood in the hallway, thinking whether she ought to go on her own in search of Mona, to go out on the bumpy streets, the sidewalks of brick and flag on which she might fall, but never had, and then she thought with her new eyes she could do it. Yes, and who knew? It might be her last time to really see.

  A year ago, she could not have seen to walk downtown. But young Dr. Rhodes had taken the cataracts from her eyes. And now she saw so well it astonished people. That is, when she told them what she saw, which she didn't often do.

  Ancient Evelyn knew perfectly well that talking made little difference. Ancient Evelyn didn't talk for years on end. People took it in stride. People did what they wanted. No one would let Ancient Evelyn tell Mona her stories anyway, and Ancient Evelyn had deepened into her memories of the early times, and she did not always need anymore to examine or explain them.

  What good had it done besides to tell Alicia and Gifford her tales? What had their lives been? And Gifford's life was over!

  It seemed astonishing again that Gifford could be dead. Completely dead. Yes, Alicia will go mad, she thought, but then so will Mona. And so will I when I really know.

  Ancient Evelyn went into Alicia's room. Alicia slept, curled up like a child. In the night, she'd gotten up and drunk half a flask of whiskey down as if it were medicine. That sort of drinking could kill you. Alicia should have died, thought Ancient Evelyn. That is what was meant to be. The horse passed the wrong gate.

  She laid the knitted cover over Alicia's shoulders and went out.

  Slowly, she went down the stairway, very very slowly, carefully examining each tread with the rubber tip of her cane, pushing and poking at the carpet to make sure there was nothing lurking there that would trip her and make her fall. On her eightieth birthday she had fallen. It had been the worst time of her old age, lying in bed as the hip mended. But it had done her heart good, Dr. Rhodes had told her. "You will live to be one hundred."

  Dr. Rhodes had fought the others when they said she was too old for the cataract operation. "She is going blind, don't you understand? I can make her see again. And her mentation is perfect."

  Mentation--she had liked that word, she had told him so.

  "Why don't you talk to them more?" he'd asked her in the hospital. "You know they think you're a feebleminded old woman."

  She had laughed and laughed. "But I am," she had said, "and the ones I loved to talk to are all gone. Now there's only Mona. And most of the time, Mona talks to me."

  How he had laughed at that.

  Ancient Evelyn had grown up speaking as little as possible. The truth was Ancient Evelyn might never have spoken much to a soul if it hadn't been for Julien.

  And the one thing she did want to do was tell Mona someday all about Julien. Maybe today should be that day. It struck her with a shimmering power! Tell Mona. The Victrola and the pearls are in that house. Mona can have them now.

  She stopped before the mirrored hat rack in the alcove. She was satisfied; yes, ready to go out. She had slept all night in her warm gabardine dress and it would be fine in this mild spring weather. She was not rumpled at all. It was so easy to sleep sitting up perfectly straight, with her hands crossed on her knee. She put a handkerchief against the tapestried back of the chair, by her cheek as she turned her head, in case anything came out of her mouth as she slept. But there was rarely a stain upon the cloth. She could use the same handkerchief over and over.

  She did not have a hat. But it had been years since she had gone out--except for Rowan Mayfair's wedding--and she did not know what Alicia had done with her hats. Surely there had been one for the wedding, and if she tried she might recollect what it looked like, probably gray with an old-fashioned little veil. Probably had pink flowers. But maybe she was dreaming. The wedding itself hadn't seemed very real.

  Surely she could not climb the stairs again to look for a hat now, and there were none in her little back room down here. Besides, her hair was done. It was the same soft bouffant she had made of it for years, and she could feel that the coil on the back of her head was firm, pins in place. It made a grand white frame for her face, her hair. She had never regretted its turning white. No, she did not require a hat. As for gloves, there were none now and no one would buy them for her.

  At Rowan Mayfair's wedding, that horrid Lauren Mayfair had even said, "Nobody wears gloves anymore," as if it didn't matter. Perhaps Lauren was right.

  Ancient Evelyn didn't mind so terribly about the gloves. She had her brooches and her pins. Her stockings were not wrinkled at all. Her shoes were tied. Mona had tied them yesterday very tight. She was ready to go. She did not look at her face; she never did anymore because it wasn't her face, it was someone else's old and wrinkled face, with deep vertical lines, very solemn and cold, and drooping lids, and the skin was too large for the bones underneath, and her eyebrows and her chin had lost their contour.

  She would prefer to think about the walk ahead. It made her happy merely to think of it, and that Gifford was gone, and if Ancient Evelyn fell, or was struck down, or became lost, there was no more granddaughter Gifford to become hysterical. It felt wonderful to her suddenly to be free of Gifford's love--as if a gate had opened wide once more on the world. And Mona would eventually know this too, this relief, this release. But not immediately.

  She went down the long, high hall, and opened the front door. It had been a year since she'd gone down the front steps, except for the wedding, and someone had carried her then. There was no rail now to hold to. The banisters had just rotted away years ago and Alicia and Patrick had done nothing about it, except tear them off and throw them under the house.

  "My great-grandfather built this house!" she had declared. "He ordered those balusters himself, picked them from the catalogue. And look what you have allowed to happen." Damn them all.

  And damn him too, when she thought about it. How she had hated him, the giant shadow over her childhood, raving Tobias, hissing at her when he snatched up her hand and held it: "Witch, witch's mark, look at it." Pinching that tiny sixth finger. She had never answered him, only loathed him in silence. She had never spoken one word to him all of
his life.

  But a house falling to ruin, that was something more important than whether you hated the person who built it. Why, building this house was maybe the only good thing Tobias Mayfair had ever done. Fontevrault, their once beautiful plantation, had died out in the swampland, or so she had been told every time she asked to be taken to see it. "That old house? The Bayou flooded it!" But then maybe they were lying. What if she could walk all the way to Fontevrault, and find the house standing there.

  That was a dream surely. But Amelia Street stood mighty and beautiful on its corner on the Avenue. And something ought to be done, be done, be done...

  Banister or no banister, she could manage perfectly well with her cane, especially now that she could see so clearly. She took the steps easily. And went directly down the path and opened the iron picket gate. Imagine. She was walking away from the house for the first time in all these years.

  Squinting at the glimmer of traffic in the distance, she crossed the lakeside of the Avenue at once. She had to wait a moment on the riverside, but soon her chance came.

  She had always liked the riverside as they called it. And she knew that Patrick was in the restaurant on the corner, drinking and eating his breakfast as he always did.

  She crossed Amelia Street and the tiny street called Antonine which came in there only a few feet from Amelia, and she stood on the corner and looked through the glass windows of the restaurant. There was Patrick--scrawny and pale--at the end table, as always, with his beer and his eggs, and the newspaper. He did not even see her. He would stay there, drinking beer and reading the paper for half the day, and then go downtown for a little while perhaps and drink some more in a bar he liked in the Quarter. In the late afternoon, Alicia might wake up and call Patrick at the bar and begin to scream for him to come home.

  So he was there, and he did not see her. How could he? Would he ever have expected Ancient Evelyn to leave the house of her own accord?

  That was perfectly fine, exactly what she wanted. And on she walked down the block, unseen, unstopped, towards downtown.

  How clear were the black-barked oaks, and the beaten down grass of the tree parks. She saw the clutter and trash of Mardi Gras still piled everywhere in the gutters, and in the trash cans which were never enough to contain it.