Lasher lotmw-2

by Anne Rice

  “But she could live into another era,” said Pierce eagerly, “into a time of some momentous new discovery.”

  “Absolutely,” said the doctor. “And every conceivable medical possibility will be explored. Neurological consultations will begin tomorrow. It is easily within our means to bring every neurologist of note to this house to see Rowan. We will do it. We will meet periodically to discuss treatments. We will always be open to the possibility of a surgical procedure or some other experiment which could restore Rowan’s mentation. But let me remind you, my friends, this is not very likely. There are patients throughout the world in this condition. The electro-encephalogram confirms that there is almost no brain activity in Rowan at all.”

  “Can’t they transplant a piece of somebody’s brain into her?” asked Gerald.

  “I volunteer,” said Mona dryly. “Take as many cells as you want. I’ve always had more than everybody else here.”

  “You don’t have to get nasty, Mona,” said Gerald, “I was just asking a simple-”

  “I’m not getting nasty,” said Mona, “what I’m suggesting is that we need to read up on this and not make inane statements. Brain transplants aren’t done. Not the kind she needs, anyway. Rowan is a vegetable! Don’t you get it?”

  “That’s unfortunately the truth,” said the doctor softly. “ ‘Persistent vegetative state’ is only a little kinder, perhaps. But that is the case. We can and should pray for miracles. And a time will come when perhaps the collective decision will be made to withhold fluids and lipids. But at this juncture such a decision would be murder. It cannot be done.”

  With a few handshakes and thank-yous, the doctor now made his way to the front door.

  Ryan took the chair at the head of the table. He was a little more rested than yesterday, and seemed eager to make his report.

  There was still no news whatsoever of Rowan’s kidnapper or captor. There had been no further assaults on Mayfair women. The decision had been made to notify the authorities about “the man” in a limited way.

  “We have made a sketch, which Michael has approved. We have added the hair and the mustache and beard described by witnesses. We are requesting an interstate search. But no one, and I mean no one, in this room is to speak of this matter outside the family. No one is to give any more information than is necessary to the agencies who will cooperate with us.”

  “You’ll only hurt the investigation,” said Randall, “if you go talking devils and spirits.”

  “We are dealing with a man,” said Ryan. “A man who walks and talks and wears clothes like other men. We have considerable circumstantial evidence to indicate he kidnapped and imprisoned Rowan. There is no need to bring in any chemical evidence right now.”

  “In other words keep the blood samples under wraps,” said Mona.

  “Exactly,” Ryan said. “When this man is caught, then we can come forward with more details of the story. And the man himself will be living proof of what is alleged. Now Aaron has some things to say.”

  Michael could see this was no pleasure for Aaron. He had been sitting silent throughout the meeting, beside Beatrice, who kept her fingers wrapped protectively about his arm. He was dressed somberly in dark blue, more like the rest of the family, as though he had put his old tweed style away. He looked not like an Englishman now but a southerner, Michael thought. Aaron shook his head as if to express some silent appreciation of what lay before them all. Then he spoke.

  “What I have to say won’t come as a surprise to you. I have severed my connection with the Talamasca. Things have been done by members of our Order-apparently-which have violated the trust of the family. I ask that all of you now regard the Talamasca as a hostile agency, and do not give any cooperation to anyone claiming connection with it from now on.”

  “This wasn’t Aaron’s fault,” said Beatrice.

  “How interesting that you would say this,” said Fielding dourly. He had been all this time as quiet as Aaron, and his voice now commanded immediate attention, as it usually did. His brown suit with its pinstripe of pink seemed as old as he was. He seemed bound to exercise the privilege of the very old-to say exactly what he thought.

  “You realize,” he said to Aaron, “that all this began with you, don’t you?”

  “That’s not true,” Aaron said, calmly.

  “Ah, but it is true,” said Fielding. “You were in contact with Deirdre Mayfair when she became pregnant with Rowan. You have…”

  “This is inappropriate, and badly timed,” said Ryan. His voice was steady but uncompromising. “This family investigates everyone who becomes involved with it by way of marriage or even sometimes in casual social affairs. This man was, as much as I dislike to admit it, thoroughly investigated by us when he first came here. He is not connected with what happened. He is what he says he is-a scholar, who has been observing this family because of his access to certain historical documents regarding it, about which he has been painfully and fully candid from the start.”

  “You’re sure of that?” asked Randall. “The history of the family as we know it-is the history which this man had given us, this Talamasca File on the Mayfair Witches as it is so audaciously called, and now we find ourselves embroiled in events which make sense in terms of this file.”

  “Oh, so you two are in this together,” said Beatrice in a cold small voice, very unlike herself.

  “This is preposterous,” said Lauren softly. “Are you trying to imply that Aaron Lightner was responsible for the events he documented? Good heavens, have you no memory of the things that you yourself have seen and heard?”

  Ryan interrupted: “The Talamasca was thoroughly investigated in the nineteen-fifties by Carlotta,” he said. “Her investigation was hardly sympathetic. She was looking for legal grounds to attack the organization. She found none. There has been no grim conspiracy originating with the Talamasca against us.”

  Lauren spoke up again, decisively, drowning out at once the other voices which struggled to be heard.

  “There is absolutely nothing to be gained from pursuing this question,” she said. “Our tasks are simple. We take care of Rowan. And we find this man.” She looked at the others, one by one, first those to her right, then those to her left, then those across the table from her, and finally at Aaron. She went on:

  “The historical records of the Talamasca have been of invaluable help to us in tracing the history of our family. Anything which can be verified has been verified without a single contradiction or flaw.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” demanded Randall. “How do you verify nonsense like-?”

  “All the historical facts,” said Lauren, “which have been mentioned in the narrative have been checked. The painting by Rembrandt of Deborah has been authenticated. Records regarding the Dutchman Petyr van Abel, still extant in Amsterdam, have been copied for our private family files. But I will not get drawn off into a long defense of the documents or of the Talamasca. Suffice it to say they have been helpful to us throughout the time of Rowan’s disappearance. They are the ones who investigated the visit of Rowan and Lasher to Donnelaith. They are the ones who have placed in our hands the most detailed physical descriptions of this person, which our detectives have only confirmed. It is very doubtful any other agency of any kind, secular, religious or legal, would have given us this kind of assistance. But…Aaron has asked us to break off formal contact with the Talamasca, and with reason, and that we will do.”

  “You can’t sweep it all under the table,” said Fielding. “What about that Dr. Larkin?”

  “No one knows what has happened to Dr. Larkin,” said Ryan. “That we all have to accept. But Lauren is correct. We have no material evidence of any wrongdoing on the part of the Talamasca. However, our contact has been exclusively through Aaron. Aaron is our friend. Aaron is now a member of the family through his marriage to Beatrice…”

  “Yes, very convenient,” said Randall.

  “You’re a fool,” said Beatrice before s
he could stop herself.

  “Amen to that,” said Mona.

  To which Ryan immediately said, “Pipe down.”

  He seemed to realize it was more than a little inappropriate, or at least Mona did everything in her power to freeze him into humiliation with her brilliant green eyes slitted like those of a basilisk. But he only patted the back of her hand by way of apology and went on.

  “Aaron has advised us…as our friend, and as our kinsman, to have nothing further to do with the Talamasca. And we shall do as he asks.”

  Once again, several of them began to speak at the same time. Lily wanted to know more about why Aaron had turned on the Order. Cecilia wanted to remind everyone that there was a man from the Talamasca asking questions around the neighborhood, the neighbors had told her, and Anne Marie wanted “just a little more clarification on a point or two.”

  Lauren brought them all to silence. “The Talamasca has confiscated medical information. It has refused to share its present knowledge of this case with us. It has cut itself off, as Aaron would explain to you if we gave him the opportunity! But you will not. We are moving forward. It’s that simple. Report any mention of the Order to the office; answer no questions; continue to preserve all security measures.” She leant forward, lowering her voice for emphasis: “Maintain closed ranks!”

  There was an uneasy silence.

  “Michael, what do you have to say?” asked Lauren.

  The question surprised him. He had been watching it all in a detached way as if it were baseball or football, or even chess. He had been drifting in and out of memories of Julien, Julien’s words. Now he had to conceal his thoughts. To speak them frankly and openly, that wouldn’t help anybody. Yet somehow the words came quietly out of his mouth.

  “I will put an end to this man, whenever and wherever he’s found. No one will keep him safe from me.”

  Randall began to speak. So did Fielding. But Michael put up his hand.

  “I want to go back upstairs and be with my wife. I want my wife to recover. I want to be with her now.”

  “Other business quickly and finally,” said Ryan. He opened his large leather folder and removed several sheets of paper covered with typewritten words. “Ah, no blood or tissue of any sort was found in St. Martinville in the area where Rowan’s unconscious body was discovered. If she did suffer a miscarriage there as the doctors believe, the evidence is long gone.

  “The area is public. And there had been at least two rainstorms during the day, while Rowan lay there, and another after she was found. We have sent two skilled detectives back to the site. But as of now, we have no clues from there as to what really happened to Rowan. We are combing the surrounding area thoroughly for anyone who might have seen Rowan, or heard or seen anything that can be of help.”

  There were a few resigned nods.

  “Now, Michael, we are prepared to take the rest of this meeting downtown. It concerns the legacy, it concerns Mona. We’ll leave you here now, with Aaron, and we’ll be back later this evening, if you will allow.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Michael. “We’re fine here. We have settled into a routine. Hamilton is upstairs with the nurses. Things are going as smoothly as one could expect.”

  “Michael,” said Lauren. “I know this is a difficult question. But I must ask it. Do you know the whereabouts of the Mayfair emerald?”

  “Oh, for god’s sakes!” said Bea, “that cursed thing.”

  “It’s a legal matter,” said Lauren frostily. “Legal. We must seek the emerald and place it around the neck of the designee.”

  “Well, if it was up to me,” said Fielding, “I’d go get a piece of green glass at Woolworth’s. But I’m too old to go downtown.”

  “Wasn’t there a fake made of that thing by Stella?” asked Randall coldly, “so she could fling it from a Mardi Gras float?”

  “If there was,” said Lauren, “she threw it from the float.”

  “I don’t know where it is,” said Michael. “I think you asked me that when I was still sick, when I was in the hospital. I haven’t seen it. I think you searched this house.”

  “Yes, we did,” said Ryan. “We thought perhaps we had overlooked something.”

  “He probably has it,” said Mona softly. No one responded.

  “That could be,” said Michael. He gave a little smile. “He probably has it. Probably considered it his very own. But you never know…” He tried not to look like a lunatic, but it was suddenly very funny to him. The emerald! Did Lasher have it in his pocket? Would he try to sell it? That would be a hoot.

  The meeting had clearly come to an end. Bea would go up to Amelia Street. The others would go downtown.

  Mona threw her arms around Michael and kissed him and then ducked out as if she didn’t want to see his anxious or reproving look. He was a bit stunned; it was like all her sweetness was clinging to him, and then there was this emptiness where she had just been.

  Beatrice gave Michael an urgent kiss, then took leave of her new husband, swearing to collect him later for supper and to make Michael eat something as well.

  “So many people are trying to make me eat something,” Michael murmured at the sheer wonder of it. “Ever since Rowan left. Eat, Michael, eat.”

  Within moments, they were gone. The big door had shut for the final time. There had been that faint vibration throughout the house that always sounded damaging, Michael thought, but probably wasn’t.

  Aaron remained at the far end of the table, across from Michael, leaning on his elbows, his back to the windows.

  “I’m happy for you and Bea,” Michael said. “You get the poem I sent to you with Yuri? The note?”

  “Yes, he gave it to me. You must tell me about Julien. Tell me what happened, not as some snoop from across the Atlantic, but as your friend, please.”

  Michael smiled. “I want to tell you. I want to relive every second of it. I’ve been sort of jotting it down up there, you know, so I won’t forget. But the truth is, Julien had one purpose. It was to tell me to kill this thing, to stop it. That I was the one who was counted upon for that.”

  Aaron appeared to be intrigued.

  “Where’s your friend Yuri?” asked Michael. “He’s still on good terms with us, isn’t he?”

  “Absolutely,” said Aaron. “He’s up at the Amelia Street house again. He’s trying again, through Mona’s computer. Mona said he could use her computer to contact the Elders, but the Elders are not acknowledging his pleas for clarification. It’s all rather terrible for him, I think.”

  “But not for you.”

  Aaron was thoughtful for a moment, then he said, “No…Not as much…”

  “Good,” said Michael. “Julien was suspicious of the Talamasca, I guess you got that from my note. Julien had more to say on it…but it all came down to the same thing-this creature is treacherous and deceitful; and it has to be destroyed. I’ll kill it as soon as I can.”

  Aaron seemed fascinated by this.

  “But what if you had it in your power? What if you had it contained where it couldn’t…”

  “No. That’s the mistake. Read the poem again. I’m to kill it. Go upstairs and look at my wife again, if you have any doubts. Go hold her hand. I’ll kill it. And I will have a chance to do it. Evelyn’s poem and Julien’s visit have promised me that.”

  “You’re like a man who’s experienced religious conversion,” said Aaron. “A week ago you were philosophical, almost despairing. You were actually physically sick.”

  “Well, I thought my wife had abandoned me. I was grieving for my wife and for my own courage, both of which had been lost. Now I know she didn’t mean to abandon me.

  “And why wouldn’t I be like St. Paul after his vision on the road to Damascus? You realize I’m the only one living who has seen and spoken to this thing?” He gave a little laugh. “Gifford, Edith, Alicia…I don’t even remember their names. All dead. And Rowan mute now, just like Deirdre. But I’m not dead. I’m not mute. I know what it looks l
ike. I know the sound of its voice. And I’m the one to whom Julien came. I guess I do have the conviction of a convert. Or maybe just the conviction of a saint.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket, drew out the medal that Ryan had returned to him, the medal which Gifford had found Christmas Day by the pool. “You gave this to me, remember?” he said to Aaron. “What’s it like when St. Michael sinks his trident into a demon? Does the demon wriggle and scream for its mother? Must be difficult to be St. Michael. This time, I will find out.”

  “Julien was its enemy then? Of this you’re sure.”

  Michael sighed. Ought to go upstairs. “What would the nurses do if I got in bed with her? What would they do if I just snuggled up to her and held her in my arms?”

  “It’s your house,” said Aaron. “Lie beside her if you wish. Tell them to sit outside the door.”

  Michael shook his head. “If only I knew she wanted me near her. If only I knew she wanted anything at all.”

  He thought for a long moment.

  “Aaron,” he said. “If you were he-Lasher-where would you be right now? What would you be doing?”

  Aaron shook his head. “I don’t know. Michael, tell me why Julien was so sure Lasher was evil? Tell me what Julien knew.”

  “Julien went after its origins. He went to Donnelaith to investigate the ruins. It wasn’t the famous circle of stones that mattered to him. It was the Cathedral. A saint named Ashlar. An early Highlands saint. The thing had something to do with the Christian times in that glen. Something to do with the saint.”

  “Ashlar, I’ve heard the story of St. Ashlar,” said Aaron quietly. “It’s in the Latin files in the archives. I remember reading it, but not in connection with this case. Oh, if only they hadn’t locked Yuri out of the computers. What has Lasher to do with this saint?”