by Anne Rice
His worst fear was that while he was taking a piss, she would die. While he was washing his hands, she would die. While he was talking on the phone, she would die.
His hands were still wet now; he hadn’t taken time to dry them. He sat down in the wing chair and looked across the room, at the old wallpaper above the fireplace, an oriental pattern of a willow and a stream. They had so reverently left it when they refurbished. Just that one old panel, the chimney panel. All the rest of the room was fresh and new, surrounding the high antique bed with swaddling comfort.
She lay as before, light glinting in her motionless eyes.
This evening around eight, they had run all the grams again, as he called them. Electroencephalo and electrocardio and so forth and so on. Her heartbeat was no stronger than it had been when she was first found. Her brain was as dead as a brain can get and still have life in it. Her soft, delicate face with its beautiful cheekbones was a bit more ruddy. She didn’t have the dried-out look anymore. He could see the result of the fluids, especially around her eyes, and in her normal-looking hands. Mona said it didn’t look like Rowan. It was Rowan.
Pray you are in some soft and beautiful valley, safe from knowing. Pray our thoughts can’t touch you. Only our comforting hands.
They had put a big rose-colored wing chair in the corner for him, between the bed and the bathroom door. There was the chest of drawers there to the right with his cigarettes and with his ashtray and also with the gun Mona had given him, a big heavy.357 Magnum that had belonged to Gifford. Ryan had brought it home from Destin two days before.
“You keep this. That way if the son of a bitch comes into this room, you can pop him,” Mona had said.
“Yes, I got it,” he said. He had wanted just such a weapon, “a simple tool” to use the phrase of Julien, to use the phrase of his many revelations. Just a simple tool to blow away the face of the being who had done this to her.
At moments, his time spent with Julien in the attic was more real than anything else. He had not tried to tell anyone else but Mona. He really wanted to tell Aaron. But the maddening thing was, he couldn’t get a moment alone with Aaron. Aaron was so angry about the suspect involvement of the Talamasca that he was spending every hour elsewhere, checking on things, verifying, whatever. Except of course for the brief wedding in the sacristy of the Cathedral, which Michael had been compelled to miss.
“Downtown Mayfairs marry at the Cathedral,” Mona had explained.
Mona was asleep now in the front bedroom, on the bed which had been his and Rowan’s. It must be exhausting to go from being a fairly poor relation to the Queen in the Castle, he thought.
But the family was losing no time in designating Mona. It was a matter of expediency. Never had the family known such turmoil and jeopardy. There had been more “change” in the last six months than ever in the family’s history, including the revolution in the 1700s in Saint-Domingue. The family intended to lock up the matter of the designee before any of the cousins could challenge it, before any internecine war began among divisions of descendants. And Mona was a child, a child whom they knew and loved and felt that they could ultimately control.
Michael had smiled at that bit of frank explanation which had dropped so naively from Pierce’s lips.
“The family’s going to control Mona?” Michael had murmured.
But they were in the hall, right outside Rowan’s door, and he hadn’t wanted to talk about all this. He had his eye on Rowan. He could see the rise and fall of her breath. A person on a respirator could not have been so regular.
“This is what’s important,” said Pierce. “Mona is the right person. Everyone knows this for various different reasons. She’ll have a few crazy schemes, it’s bound to happen, but Mona is basically very smart and mentally sound.”
Interesting, those words, mentally sound. Were there many people in the family who were flat-out crazy? Probably.
“What Dad wants you to know,” Pierce had continued, “is that this is your house till the day you die. It’s Rowan’s house. If there should be some kind of miracle, I mean if…”
“I know…”
“Then everything reverts to Rowan, with Mona designated as the heir. Even if Rowan could speak now, this would have to be decided, who would be the heir. All those years when Deirdre was in her famous rocker, we knew that Rowan Mayfair in California was the heir. Also those were the days of Carlotta. We couldn’t make her cooperate. This time we will do things immediately and smoothly and efficiently. I know to you it must seem very strange…”
“Not so strange,” he’d said. “I want to go back in. It makes me edgy to leave her.”
“Sometime or other you’ll have to sleep.”
“I sleep, son, I sleep right there in the chair. I’m fine. I sleep better than I did when I was on all that medicine. It’s kind of deep and natural. I sleep holding her hand.”
And I try not to think, Rowan, why the hell did you leave me? Why did you drive me out on Christmas Eve? Why didn’t you trust me? And Aaron, why the hell didn’t you break the laws of the Talamasca and come here? But that wasn’t fair. Aaron himself had explained that situation-how they had given him his orders to stay away, and how guilty, how spineless, he had felt.
“I sat there at Oak Haven giving you all those excuses. I let you return to the house alone. I should have trusted my own conscience. Dear God, it’s the old dilemma.” Aaron’s entire loyalty to the Talamasca was now in question. Thank God that he loved Beatrice, that she loved him. What would become of a man like that, cast out of the Talamasca? Hell, the handsome gypsy with the jet-black eyes and the golden skin was young.
He closed his eyes.
He knew the nurse was fiddling with the IV again. He could hear her, and hear the little beeps which came from the electronic control. How he hated these machines, machines which had surrounded him in the cardiac unit for so long.
And now she lay there at their mercy, she who had taken so many people through the techno-medical vale of tears.
Whatever happened, she had suffered for it unspeakably, and he had made his vow. When that thing was found, he would kill it. Nobody would stop him. He would kill it. He would not hesitate for the sake of any legal or religious authority, or any family pressure or any moral qualm. He would kill it. That had been Julien’s message. You will have one more chance.
And as soon as he could leave this bedside without worrying, as soon as he really knew that Rowan was stable, he’d go looking for it himself.
It had failed to couple with its daughters…the Mayfair Witches. It had chosen those who did possess the extra chromosomes, but the births had failed. How had he known his brides-by scent, perhaps, or something visible which others didn’t see? For massive irregularities had been found in Gifford and in Alicia, and in Edith, and in the two cousins in Houston.
Would he now seek a mate at random? Who could know.
Michael was in terror of the news-another rash of inexplicable deaths. An unknown disease surfacing suddenly in the headlines. Women on slabs in Dallas or Oklahoma City, or New York. Imagine it, this tall blue-eyed creature, bringing death with his embrace. For without exception, his deadly semen had caused them to ovulate instantly, for the egg then to be fertilized and for the embryo to grow out of control.
All that was known now from the analysis of the doctors. It was also known that he, Michael, had the chromosomes, though they were inactive. And so did Mona, in whom they were also inactive, and so did Paige Mayfair from New York, and so did Ancient Evelyn and Gerald and Ryan himself.
The family was handling it fairly well, as far as he was concerned, though there was much discussion now as to whether Clancy and Pierce should marry, for both of them had the extra complement, too.
And what was he to do with Mona? Did he dare touch Mona again? They both had the abnormality. How significant was it? How much of Lasher’s birth had been chromosomal, and how much his soul sliding in there and taking over? What right had Michael to
be touching Mona anyway? That was all past. It was past the minute he saw Rowan lying on the stretcher. Past, past, past. He’d had enough fun in life. He could sit in that chair forever. Just be with her.
However, there were good arguments for ignoring the genetic analysis, said the doctors, at least for Clancy and Pierce to trust to “nature,” whatever that might truly be. Pierce’s sisters did not have the extra-long double helix. They had extra genes, but it simply wasn’t the same. Ryan and Gifford, both with extra genes, had failed to produce a monster. Michael had had lovers. Yes, and if years ago his girlfriend hadn’t chosen an abortion against his heartfelt wishes, he might have had a normal child.
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.
