by Anne Rice
Other leads were being followed. Crumpled stationery and a plastic door key card found in Houston had been traced to a hotel in New York. People were being questioned. Rowan's truck driver was being brought in, at family expense, to give yet another thorough verbal report.
It was a hideous picture, the empty office tower, the filthy prison cell. Dead flowers. The broken porcelain on the bloody floor. Rowan had escaped, but then something dreadful had happened to Rowan. It had happened out in a grass field under a famous tree called Gabriel's Oak. A beautiful spot. Mona knew it. Lots of schoolkids knew it. You went to St. Martinville to see it, the Arcadian Museum, and Gabriel's Oak. There was Evangeline Oak in the city of St. Martinville, and Gabriel's Oak out there near the old house. Gabriel leaning on his elbows, they said, to wait for Evangeline. Well, Rowan had gone down between the elbows in the grass.
Toxic shock, allergic reaction, immuno-failure. A hundred comparisons had been drawn. But the blood revealed no toxins any longer, not last night, not today. Whatever had happened with the miscarriage was over. Possibly she had simply lost the child and passed out.
Ugly, ugly, all of it.
But could anything have been uglier than the actual sight of Rowan Mayfair, in the white hospital bed, her head straight up on the pillow, her arms by her sides motionless, her eyes staring into space? She had been greatly emaciated, white as paper, but the worst part was the attitude of the arms, parallel, slightly turned in, and the utter blankness of her face. All personality was gone from her expression. She looked faintly idiotic lying there, eyes far too round, and completely unresponsive to movement or to light. Her mouth looked small and strangely round also, as though it had lost whatever character caused it to lengthen into a woman's mouth. Even as Mona sat there watching, Rowan's arms began to pull in closer to the body. The nurses would reach over to stretch them out.
Rowan's hair was thin, as if much of it had fallen out. More evidence of severe malnutrition and the aborted pregnancy. She was so small in the white hospital gown she might as well have been an angel in a Christmas pageant.
And then there was Michael, mussed and shaken, sitting beside her, talking to her, telling her that he was going to take care of her, that everyone was gathered, that she mustn't be afraid. He told her he would put colored pictures up in her room, and he would play music. He had found an old gramophone. He would play that for her. He talked on and on. "We're going to take care of everything. We're going to...going to take care of everything."
He was scared of saying something like, "We'll find this bastard thing, this monster." No, who would want to say that to the innocent, blank creature lying there, the grotesque remnant of a woman who knew how to operate with perfect precision and success upon other people's brains?
Mona knew that Rowan couldn't hear anything. There was nothing in there listening anymore. The brain was still working, a little, causing the lungs to function at a completely mechanical pace, causing the heart to pump with the same frightening regularity, but the outer extremities of the body grew more and more cold.
At any moment the brain might stop giving orders. The body would die. The mind had no concern for itself any longer. The boss of the body had fled. The electroencephalogram was almost flat.
The tiny little blips here and there were no more than you would get if you hooked up the machine to a dead brain in a room on a table. You always got something, they said.
Rowan had been badly physically hurt. That was really ugly. There were bruises on her pale arms and legs. There was evidence of a spontaneous fracture in her left hip. She bore the bruises and marks of rape. The miscarriage had been extremely violent. There was blood and fluid on her thighs.
At six o'clock this morning they had shut off the respirator. She had suffered no complications from the swift and simple surgery. All the tests were completed.
They had rushed to take her home at ten a.m. for one simple reason. They had not expected her to live out the day. Her instructions had been very explicit. She had written them out when she took possession of the legacy. She was to die in the house on First Street. "My home." It was all in her own handwriting, completed in the happy days right before the wedding, beautifully in keeping with the spirit of the legacy. To die in Mary Beth's bed.
Also there was the superstition of the family to consider. People were standing in the corridors of Mercy Hospital and saying, "She should die in the master bedroom. She should be home."
"They ought to take her home to First Street." Old Grandpa Fielding had been adamant. "She will not die in this hospital. You are torturing her. To release her, you must take her home."
Mayfair madness in high gear. Even Anne Marie was saying that she ought to be returned to the famous master bedroom. Who knew? Perhaps the spirits of the dead in the house could help her? Even Lauren said bitterly, "Take the woman home."
The nuns might have been shocked, if anybody gave a damn, but probably not. Cecilia and Lily had said the rosary aloud in the hospital room all night. Magdalene and Liane and Guy Mayfair had prayed in the chapel with the two Mayfair nuns in the family, the little tiny nuns whose names Mona always mixed up.
Old Sister Michael Marie Mayfair--the oldest of Mayfair Sisters of Mercy--had come down and prayed over Rowan, loudly, chanting Hail Marys and Our Fathers and Glory Bes.
"If that doesn't wake her up," said Randall, "nothing will. Go home and get her bedroom ready."
Beatrice had done it, with a heavy contingent of helpers--Stephanie and Spruce Mayfair, and two young black policemen--reluctant as she was to leave Aaron there.
Now, back at First Street, enshrined beneath the satin-lined half tester and covered with ancient quilts and imported coverlets, Rowan Mayfair continued to breathe, unaided. It was already six p.m. and she was not dead.
An hour ago, they had commenced intravenous feeding--fluids, lipids. "It is not life support," said Dr. Fleming. "It is nourishment. Otherwise, we would be technically starving her to death."
Michael apparently hadn't argued. But then there were so many people involved. When he called, he told Mona the room was full of nurses and doctors. He confirmed that the security men were all over, and on the gallery outside the window, and down in the street. People were wondering what was happening.
But the armed guards were not such an unfamiliar sight in a city like New Orleans in this day and age. Everybody hired them for parties, get-togethers. When you went to school for a nighttime function there they were at the gates. The drugstores had guards near the register. Just the way of this banana republic, Gifford had said once.
Mona had answered, "Yeah, so brilliant. Guys at minimum wage with loaded thirty-eights."
However crude, these measures had been relentless and effective for the family.
No further assaults had been made on Mayfair women. All the women were gathered in at various houses. There was no group smaller than six or seven. There was no group without men.
A separate fleet of detectives brought in from Dallas combed the city of Houston, fanning out from the building, asking anyone and everyone if he or she had seen this tall black-haired man. They had made drawings of him, based on Aaron's verbal description, which had come to him through the Talamasca.
They were also searching for Dr. Samuel Larkin. They could not understand why he had left the Pontchartrain Hotel without telling anyone--until they found the message at the desk which had been called up to his room.
"Meet Rowan. Come alone."
The message had everyone worried. It was a cinch Rowan had not called Dr. Larkin. Rowan was already on a hospital gurney in St. Martinville by the time the call had come in.
Samuel Larkin had been last seen walking fast up St. Charles Avenue, towards Jackson. "You be careful now," a cabdriver had said, begrudgingly perhaps because the doctor wouldn't hire the taxi. What did it matter? It had definitely been Dr. Larkin. And by the time Gerald hit the pavement, there was no sign of him in sight.
In a way, Beatrice
Mayfair had been the biggest nuisance and the biggest consolation the entire time. Beatrice was the one who kept insisting on normal procedures, who kept refusing to believe that anything "horrible" had really happened, that they should send for specialists and take more tests.
Beatrice had always taken that position. She was the one who went to call on poor crazy Deirdre and take her candy, which she could not eat, and silk negligees she never wore. She was the one who came three or four times a year to visit Ancient Evelyn, even during periods when Ancient Evelyn had not talked for six months.
"Well, sweetheart, it's just the most dreadful shame they closed the Holmes lunch counter. Do you remember all the times we went down there to lunch at D. H. Holmes, you and me and Millie and Belle?"
And there she was at the house now fussing in the bedroom, most likely. And gone back up to Amelia Street to make sure everyone had something to eat. Good thing Michael liked Beatrice. But then everybody liked her. And the most amazing thing about her constant optimism was that she was clearly going to marry Aaron Lightner, and if anybody knew something horrible had happened it was Lightner, beyond doubt.
Aaron Lightner had taken one long look at Rowan and then walked out of the room. The expression on his face had been so wrathful, so dark. He had stared at Mona for a moment, and then he had gone off fast down the corridor to find a phone he could use in private, to call Dr. Larkin, and that is when they discovered that Dr. Larkin had left the suite.
What in the world did Beatrice and Aaron talk about with each other? She would say one minute, "Well, we ought to inject her with something, you know, to give her energy!" And all but clap her hands. And he would just stand there in the dim corridor, refusing to answer the questions put to him by the others, staring fixedly at Mona, and then at nothing, and then at Mona, and then at nothing, until the others simply started talking to one another and forgot he was there.
Nobody reported a strange fragrance in the rooms in Houston. But as soon as the first package had come, containing clothing and pillow slips, Mona had smelled the fragrance.
"Yeah, that's it, that's the smell of this being," she had said. Randall had raised his eyebrows. "Well, I sure as hell don't know what that's got to do with it."
Mona had defeated him cold by answering simply, "Neither do I."
Two hours later he had wandered in and said, "You ought to go home and be with Ancient Evelyn."
"There are seventeen different women in that house now, and six different men. What makes you think I ought to go there? I don't want to be there now. I don't want to see my mother's stuff, and her things and all. I don't want to. It's illogical to go up there. It makes no sense for the daughter of the dead woman to go up there. Which I am. Why don't you lie down and take a nap?"
One of the agencies had called directly after, but only to report that no one, absolutely no one, had seen the mysterious man leave the Houston building. Every single reported death in the entire Houston area was being investigated. None fitted the pattern of the deceased Mayfair women. Each had its own context, precluding the involvement of the mysterious man.
The net was huge; the net was fine-spun; the net was strong.
Then at five had come the first reports from the airlines. Yes, a person with long black flowing hair, beard and mustache had taken the three o'clock flight Ash Wednesday from New Orleans to Houston. First Class aisle seat. Exceptionally tall and soft-spoken. Beautiful manner, beautiful eyes.
Had he taken a taxi from the airport--a limo? A bus? Houston's airport was enormous. But there were hundreds of people asking questions, proceeding quietly to one potential witness after another. "If he walked, we'll find somebody who saw him."
"What about planes from Houston to here? Last night? Yesterday?" Checking, checking, checking.
Finally Mona thought, I'm going up there. I'm going to go see my cousin Rowan Mayfair. I'm going to make my call. It made her choke up. She couldn't speak or think for a minute. But she had to go.
It was now dark.
A fax had just come in, a copy of the boarding ticket issued to the mysterious man by the airlines when he had flown back to Houston on Ash Wednesday. He had used the name Samuel Newton. He had paid for the ticket with cash. Samuel Newton. If there was such a person in any public record anywhere in the continental United States, he would surely be found.
But then he might have made up the name on the spur of the moment. He had drunk milk on the plane, glass after glass of milk. They had had to go back to coach to get him more milk. Not much happens on a flight between New Orleans and Houston. It isn't long enough. But they had given him his milk.
Mona stared at the computer screen.
"We do not have a clue as to the man's whereabouts. But all the women are protected. If another death is discovered, it will be an old death."
Then she hit the key to save and close the file. She waited as the tiny lights flashed. Then she hit the off button. The low drone of the fan died away.
She stood up, groping for a purse, on instinct, her hand always going back at such a moment right to where she had dropped the purse, though she herself did not know where that was.
She slipped the strap over her shoulder. Her feet hurt just a little in her mother's smooth grown-up leather shoes. The suit wasn't all that bad. The blouse was pretty. But the shoes? Forget it. That part of being a woman held not the slightest charm.
A little memory came back to her. She was drifting. Aunt Gifford was telling her about buying the first pair of heels. "They would only let us have French heels. We went to Maison Blanche. Ancient Evelyn and I. And I wanted the high high heels, but she said no."
Pierce gave a start. He had been almost asleep when he saw her standing behind the desk.
"I'm going uptown," she said.
"Not by yourself, you're not. You're not even riding down in the elevator alone."
"I know that. There are guards everywhere. I'm riding the streetcar. I have to think."
Naturally he came with her.
He had not rested for one hour since his mother's funeral and certainly not before that. Poor handsome Pierce, standing desolate and anxious on the corner of Carondolet and Canal, amid the common crowd, waiting for a streetcar. He'd probably never ridden it in his life.
"You should have called Clancy before you left," she said to him. "Clancy called earlier. Did they tell you?"
He nodded. "Clancy's all right. She's with Claire and Jenn. Jenn is crying. She wanted you to be with her."
"I can't do that now." Jenn. Jenn was still a little kid. You couldn't tell any of this to Jenn. And protecting Jenn would be too much hard work.
The streetcar was jammed with tourists. Very few of the real people at all. The tourists wore bright, neatly pressed clothes because the weather was still cool. When the humid summer came on, they would be as disheveled and half-naked as everyone else. Mona and Pierce sat quiet together on a wooden seat as the car screeched and roared through lower St. Charles Avenue, the small Manhattan-style canyon of office buildings, then around Lee Circle and on uptown.
It was almost magical what happened at the corner of Jackson and St. Charles. The oaks sprang up, huge, dark and hovering over the Avenue. The shabby stucco buildings fell away. The world of the columns and the magnolias began. The Garden District. You could almost feel the quiet surround you, press against you, lift you out of yourself.
Mona got off the car in front of Pierce and crossed quickly over to the river side, cut across Jackson and started up St. Charles. It was not so cold right now. Not here. It was mild and windless. The cicadas were singing. It seemed early in the year for them, but she was glad, she loved the sound. She had never figured out if there was a season for cicadas. Seems they sang at all different times of the year. Maybe every time it got warm enough, they woke up. She had loved them all her life. Couldn't live in a place that didn't purr like this now and then, she thought, walking back the broken pavements of First Street.
Pierce walked along
saying nothing, looking vaguely astonished whenever she glanced at him, as though he were falling asleep on his feet.
As they reached Prytania they could see people outside the big house, see the cars parked. See the guards. Some of the guards wore khaki and were from a private agency. Others were off-duty New Orleans policemen in their customary blue.
Mona couldn't stand the high heels any longer. She took them off and walked in her stocking feet.
"If you step on one of those big roaches, you're going to hate it," Pierce said.
"Boy, you're sure right about that."
"Oh, that's your new technique, Mona. I heard you use it on Randall. Just flat-out agree. You're going to catch cold in your bare feet. You're going to tear your stockings."
"Pierce, the roaches don't come out this time of year. But what's the point of my telling you this? Are you going to listen? You realize our mothers are dead, Pierce? Our mothers? Both dead. Have I said this to you before?"
"I don't remember," he said. "It's hard to remember that they're dead, as a matter of fact. I keep thinking, my mother will know what to do about all this, she'll be here any minute. Did you know that my father was not faithful to my mother?"
"You're crazy."
"No, there was another woman. I saw him with her this morning, down in the coffee shop in the building. He was holding her hand. She's a Mayfair. Her name's Clemence. He kissed her."
"She's a worried cousin. She works in the building. I used to see her all the time down there at lunch."
"No, she's a woman for my father. I'll bet my mother knew all about it. I hope she didn't care."
"I'm not going to believe that about Uncle Ryan," said Mona, instantly realizing that she did believe it. She did. Uncle Ryan was such a handsome man, so accomplished, so successful, and he'd been married so long to Gifford.
Best not to think of those things. Gifford in the vault, cleanly dead and buried before the slaughter. Mourned while there was still time to mourn. Of Alicia, what could you say, "Would she had died hereafter"? Mona realized she didn't even know where her mother's body had been taken. Was it at the hospital? At the morgue? She didn't want to think it was in the morgue. Well, she can sleep now forever. Passed out for all time. Mona started to choke up again, and swallowed hard.
