Lasher

by Anne Rice

  Forensic analysis of Deirdre's genetic blueprint had also indicated she did not possess the extra chromosomes, yet she had given birth to a child who did. Still, should those who carried the extra package court disaster?

  "Look, that thing came through on Christmas. Rowan and I didn't make it. We just created a fetus, and the thing took it out of God's hands. It didn't grow out of control in Rowan's body. It didn't make her abort. Not until that thing went into it."

  God's hands. How odd of him to have used the word God. But the longer he stayed in this house, the longer he stayed in New Orleans, and there was no reason to presume he wouldn't forever, the more normal the concept of God seemed.

  Whatever, the genetic material had only been discovered. A small core of family-managed doctors were working right round the clock to solve the mystery, working even now...

  Nothing was going to happen to these doctors either. Only Ryan and Lauren knew their actual location, their names, the laboratory in which they worked. The Talamasca would not be told this time, the Talamasca whom Aaron no longer trusted, and whom he suspected of the worst, most unspeakable wrongs.

  "Aaron, take it easy," Michael had said earlier this afternoon. "Lasher could have killed those doctors, it's just that simple. He could have killed anyone who had any evidence."

  "He is one being, Michael. He cannot be in two places at once. Please believe me, a man of my ilk doesn't make rash statements, especially not about an organization to which he has given his undivided loyalty for an entire life."

  Michael hadn't pressed him. But he hadn't liked the idea, not at all. On the other hand, there was something he should have told Aaron! If only they'd been alone, but that never seemed to happen. When Aaron had stopped this morning, Yuri, the gypsy kid, had been with him, and the indefatigable Ryan and his clone, son Pierce.

  Michael looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty. And it was Aaron's wedding night. He sat back, wondering when it would be proper to call. Of course there would be no honeymoon for Aaron or Beatrice. How could there be? But they were married now, lawfully under the same roof, and the entire family was happy. Michael had heard enough to be sure of it from the cousins who had come to visit all day long.

  Well, he had to get a message to Aaron. He had to not forget this. He had to remember everything, and be ready, and his weariness couldn't get to him, or fuddle him. Not this time.

  He turned and opened the top drawer of the chest very quietly. The big gun was a beauty. He'd love to take that down to a shooting gallery and fire away. Funny thing was, Mona said she liked to do that. And he'd gotten a kick out of it. Mona and Gifford had gone target practicing together in a funny place in Gretna where you wore ear covers and eye covers and fired at paper targets in long concrete carrels.

  Ah, the gun, yes, and also here was the notepad he had put there himself some weeks before. And a fine-point black pen, perfect.

  He took the pad and pen, and shut the drawer.

  Dear Aaron,

  Somebody's going to take this note to you. Because I will not have a chance to tell you this for some time. I still think you're all wrong about the T. They couldn't have done those things. They just couldn't. But there is another corroborating opinion. This you need to know.

  This is the poem Julien recited to me, the poem Ancient Evelyn recited to him over seventy years ago. I cannot get away to ask Ancient Evelyn if she remembers it. She's no longer talking sense, they tell me. Maybe you can ask her. This is what is written in my mind.

  One will rise who is too evil.

  One will come who is too good.

  'Twixt the two, a witch shall falter

  and thereby open wide the door.

  Pain and suffering as they stumble

  Blood and fear before they learn.

  Woe betide this Springtime Eden

  Now the vale of those who mourn.

  Beware the watchers in that hour

  Bar the doctors from the house

  Scholars will but nourish evil

  Scientists would raise it high.

  Let the devil speak his story

  Let him rouse the angel's might

  Make the dead come back to witness

  Put the alchemist to flight.

  Slay the flesh that is not human

  Trust to weapons crude and cruel

  For, dying on the verge of wisdom,

  Tortured souls may seek the light.

  Crush the babes who are not children

  Show no mercy to the pure

  Else shall Eden have no Springtime.

  Else shall our kind reign no more.

  He read it over. Dreadful handwriting. You've let it go to pot, buddy. But it was readable, and now he circled the words Scholars, Scientists, alchemist.

  He wrote: "Julien was suspicious too. Incident in a church in London. Not in your files."

  He folded the paper, and put it in his pocket. He'd entrust this to Pierce or Gerald only, and one of them would be along before midnight. Or maybe even Hamilton, who was out taking a nap. Hamilton wasn't a bad guy at all.

  He slipped the pen in his pocket and reached out with his left hand to clasp Rowan's fingers. There was a sudden jerk. He rose up with a start.

  "Just a reflex, Mr. Curry," said the nurse from the shadows. "It happens now and then. If she was hooked to one of the machines, it would drive the needle crazy, but it doesn't mean a damned thing."

  He sat back, holding tight to her hand, refusing to admit it was as cool and lifeless as before. He looked at her profile. It seemed to have slipped a little to the left. But maybe that was a mistake. Or they had lifted her head for some reason, or he was just dreaming.

  Then he felt the fingers tighten again.

  "There, it happened," he said. He stood up. "Turn on that lamp."

  "It's nothing, you're torturing yourself," said the nurse. She came softly to the side of the bed, and she laid her fingers on Rowan's right wrist. Then, removing a small flashlight from her pocket, she bent over and directed the tiny beam right into Rowan's eye.

  She stepped back, shaking her head.

  Michael sat down again. OK, honey. OK. I'm going to get him. I'm going to kill him. I'm going to destroy him. I'm going to see that his brief fleshly life comes to a swift end. I am going to do it. Nothing this time will stop me. Nothing. He kissed her open palm. No movement in the fingers. He kissed it again, and then he folded the hand closed and put it at her side.

  How terrible to think she might not want him to be touching her, might not like the light or the candles, might not want anyone near her, and yet she was locked inside, unable to utter a single word.

  "Love you, darling dear," he said to her. "I love you. I love you."

  The clock struck eleven. How strange it was. The hours dragged and then they flew. Only Rowan's breathing had the constant rhythm.

  He lay back in the chair, and closed his eyes.

  It was past midnight when he looked up again. He studied his watch, and then cautiously he looked at Rowan. Was she exactly the same? The nurse was at the little mahogany table, writing as always. Hamilton was in a chair in the far corner, reading by a small high-beam light.

  Her eyes somehow...But the nurse would scoff at him. Still...

  The guard stood outside, on the gallery, his back to the window which he had shut.

  Another figure stood in the room. It was Yuri, the gypsy with the slanted eyes and the black hair. He was smiling at Michael and just for a moment Michael was uncomfortably startled, off base. But the face was kind. Almost beatific like that of Aaron.

  He stood up, and motioned for the man to move out into the hail.

  "I came from Aaron," said Yuri. "He says to tell you he is happily married. He says he wants you to remember what he said. You are not to let anyone from the Talamasca in here. Not anyone. You must tell them. It was a snap for me to get in. Won't you tell them all, now?"

  "Yes, yes, I'll do that." He turned and made a little motion to the nurse. She knew
what it meant. Take Rowan's vital signs. I have to go out for three minutes. I won't do it unless you take her pulse.

  The nurse went about it quickly and made the sign to him: "No change."

  "Are you sure?"

  The nurse sighed coldly. "Yes, Mr. Curry."

  They went down the stairs, Michael going first, a little light-headed and thinking maybe he ought to eat. Had to remember to eat. Then he remembered. Someone had given him a big plate of dinner. So he should be perfectly all right.

  He went out on the porch and called the guards from the gate. In a moment there were five uniformed security men around him. Yuri told them. No one from the Talamasca. Only Yuri. Aaron Lightner. Yuri showed them his passport. "You know Aaron," he said.

  They nodded; they understood.

  "Well, we're not letting anybody in here, unless we know that person, you know. We've got the nurses' names on a list."

  Michael walked Yuri back out to the gate. The fresh air felt good. It was waking him up.

  "I talked my way past them," said Yuri. "I don't want to get them in trouble, but stay on them. Remind them. I never gave them my name."

  "I got you," said Michael. He turned and looked up at the window of the master bedroom. On the first night that he had ever seen it candles had been flickering behind the closed blinds. He looked at the window below it, which led to the library, the window through which that thing had almost come.

  "I hope you're close. I hope you're coming," he said in a bitter whisper meant only for Lasher, his secret and old friend.

  "You have the gun Mona gave you?" Yuri asked.

  "Upstairs. How did you know about that?"

  "She told me," he said. "Put it in your pocket. Carry it always. You have other reasons." He gestured to a figure in the shadows across Chestnut Street, against the stone wall.

  "That is one of the Talamasca," he said.

  "Yuri, surely you and Aaron don't really believe these men to be dangerous. They're being devious, I see that. They aren't helping. But dangerous? You're angry, something's happened. But you don't think men from the Talamasca would take human life. Yuri, I did my own investigating of the Talamasca. So did Ryan Mayfair before I married Rowan. The Talamasca is made up of bibliophiles and linguists, medievalists and clerks."

  "Nice description. Your words?"

  "I don't know. I think so. Seems I said it crossly to Aaron once. But seriously. Lasher is the thing to fear. Lasher is the thing to catch--" He reached into his pocket. "Almost forgot. Take this to Aaron. You can read it if you like. It's a poem. I didn't write it. Make sure he gets this. Not tonight, tomorrow--whenever you see him--will be soon enough. It contradicts what I'm saying, actually, but that's not the point. I just Want him to see it, all of it. Maybe some of it will mean something to him. I don't know."

  "All right. I will see him in an hour. I am going back there. But keep the gun near you. See that man? His name is Clement Norgan. Don't speak to him. Don't let him come in."

  "You mean don't ask him what the hell he's doing there?"

  "Exactly. Don't let him goad you into engaging him in conversation. Just keep an eye."

  "All this sounds so Catholic, so Talamasca," said Michael. "Don't engage the Devil in conversation; do not converse with the evil spirit."

  Yuri shrugged, with a small bit of a smile. He looked off into the dark. His eyes fixed on the distant figure of Clement Norgan. Michael could scarcely make it out. There was a time when he could have seen it clearly, but now his night vision wasn't so good. He knew it was a man there. And it crossed his mind that somewhere out here in this soft, gentle darkness, somewhere Lasher could be standing, watching, waiting.

  But for what?

  "What will you do now, Yuri?" asked Michael. "Aaron says they've kicked you both out."

  "Hmmm, I don't know," said Yuri. The smile broadened. "It's nice to realize that. I can do things. I can...do something completely new. I hadn't thought of it before." Then his face darkened. "But I have a destiny," he said softly.

  "What is it?"

  "To discover why all this happened with the Talamasca. To discover...who made what decision when. Don't tell me. It sounds very governmental. Central Intelligence, that sort of thing. Tonight I was at the house of Mona Mayfair, using her computer. I tried to reach the Motherhouse archives. Every code was blocked. Imagine changing so many codes, just to defeat me. Maybe it is always done. But never did anyone change a code while I was there. No, it's crazy."

  Michael nodded. For him, things were really simple. He was going to kill the thing. But why explain? "Tell Aaron I'm sorry I couldn't be there for the wedding. I wanted to be."

  "Yes, he knows. Be careful. Watch. And listen. Two enemies, remember?"

  And with that Yuri stepped back and then darted away. He was across Chestnut Street with a few large strides, and then gone down First, without so much as a sideways glance at Norgan.

  Michael went back up the steps. He summoned the guard nearest the door.

  "That man over there, keep an eye on him," said Michael. "Oh, he's OK. He's a private detective hired by the family."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Absolutely. Showed us his identification earlier."

  "I don't think so," said Michael. "Yuri knew him. He's not a private detective. Did any of the family tell you they had hired him to be here?"

  The guard was flustered. "No. He showed me his identification. You're right. It should have come from Ryan or Pierce Mayfair."

  "You better believe it."

  Michael was about to say, "Call him." He was about to walk down the steps and go over to the man himself. Then he remembered that strange religious admonition, "Do not engage him in conversation."

  "You know the next shift?" asked Michael. "Their names, their faces?"

  "Yes, all of them. And the guys out back. I know who's coming at three tomorrow afternoon and at midnight tomorrow night. Got all those names. I should have questioned this guy. Look, let me run that bastard out of here. He said he was working for the Mayfair family."

  "No, just watch him. Maybe Ryan did hire him. Maybe Ryan forgot to tell you and me. Just watch him, watch him and anybody like him, and don't let anyone in without talking to me."

  "Yes, sir."

  Michael went back inside, shutting the big door behind him. For a moment he stood against it, looking down the narrow hallway, at the old familiar sight of the high keyhole door to the dining room, and the bit of colored mural beyond.

  "What's going to happen, Julien? How is it going to work itself out?"

  Tomorrow the family would convene in the dining room to discuss this very question. If the man had not surfaced, what should they do? What was their obligation to others? How should it be handled?

  "We will deal with the specifics," Ryan had said, "with what we know, as corporate lawyers are bound to do. This man abducted and abused Rowan. That is all the various law enforcement agencies need to be told."

  Michael smiled. He started the slow climb up the long flight of stairs. Don't count them, don't think about it, don't think about a twinge in your chest, or a swimming feeling in your head.

  It was going to be fun working with "law enforcement agencies," trying to keep all this secret. Ah, Lord, would the papers have a field day. He suspected the simplest angle would be some cheap statement as to the man's being a "Satanist," a member of a violent and dangerous "cult."

  And then he thought of that shining spirit, "the man" whom he had once seen behind the crib at Christmas, and staring at him in the garden below. He thought of that radiant countenance.

  What's it like, Lasher, to be lost in the flesh and to have the whole world looking for you? Like being a needle in a haystack, instead of such a powerful ghost? In this day and age, they find needles in haystacks. And you are a bit more like the family emerald, lost in a box of jewels. Not so hard to see you, snatch you, snare you, keep you, the way no one could have ever done when you were Julien's daemon or fiend.

 
He stopped at the door of the bedroom. All was as he had left it. Hamilton reading. The nurse with her chart. The candles giving off the sweet good odor of expensive wax, and the shadow of the Virgin's statue dancing behind them, the shiver of the shadow thrown across Rowan's face and giving it a false life.

  He was about to resume his old position when he spied a movement in the bedroom at the end of the hall. Must be the other nurse, he thought, but he didn't like it, and he went down the hall to check.

  For one moment, he couldn't make out what he was seeing--a tall gray-haired woman in a flannel gown. Sunken cheeks, bright eyes, a high forehead. Her white hair was loose over her shoulders. Her gown hung to her bare feet. The twinge in his chest became a pain.

  "It's Cecilia," she said mercifully, patiently. "I know. Some of us Mayfairs were born looking like ghosts. I'll come in and sit with her if you like. I've just slept a good eight hours. Why don't you he down here for a little while?"

  He shook his head. He felt so foolish and so badly shaken. And he hoped to God he hadn't hurt her feelings!

  He went back in to take up the vigil as before. Rowan, my Rowan.

  "What's that spot on her gown?" he asked the nurse.

  "Oh, must be a little water," said the nurse, pressing a dry washcloth to Rowan's breast. "I was wiping her face and moistening her lips. Do you want me to massage her now, just move her arms, keep them flexible?"

  "Yes, do it. Do anything and everything. Do it whenever you get bored. If she shows the slightest..."

  "Of course."

  He sat down and closed his eyes. He was drifting. Julien said something to him, but he was just remembering, the long story, the image of Marie Claudette with her six fingers. Six fingers on the left hand. Rowan had had beautiful and perfect hands. Hands of a surgeon.

  What if she had done what Carlotta Mayfair wanted? What her mother had wanted? What if she had never come home?

  He awoke with a start. The nurse was lifting Rowan's right leg, carefully, gently, smoothing the lotion over the skin. Look how thin, how worn. "This will keep her from getting drop foot. We have to do it regularly. You want to remind the others. I'll write it on the chart. But you remember."

  "I will," he said.

  "She must have been a beautiful woman," said the nurse, shaking her head.