Get the knife. Somehow.
He imagined the way it would feel in his hand. He tried to dislodge it with his boot, but only drove it deeper into the ground. In his mind, his hand curled around the cool staghorn handle, and he could feel every groove and dent. The knife’s weight tugged at his grip.
The Pumpkin Man had taken his little brother. His flesh and blood. Had stood at the pit’s edge, and been grinning all the time.
Anger crackled like lightning behind New’s eyes. He was staring at the bowie knife.
If you want something bad enough, his father had said once, you can get it. But only if you want it with heart and soul and mind, if you want it with every pore in your skin and hair on your head, and you know it’s the right thing…
The Pumpkin Man had been grinning. Laughing at him, laughing as he stole Nathan away into the wild depths of the forest…
New’s heart was beating hard. Red light stung his eyes. He strained toward the knife as much as he could; the thorns tore his skin mercilessly. They were not going to let him get away.
The Pumpkin Man had taken his brother, then had laughed at him in the dark.
A surge of rage ripped through him, filling him with bitter fire. It was an anger he’d never known before, and in it was not only the Pumpkin Man but also the cheap pine box that had held his father’s body, and the truck tire that had exploded with no warning, and the thorns and Briartop Mountain and the rundown cabin where his taciturn mother cooked her blackberry pies. All of it came through his pores in a yell of sweat.
I WANT IT! he shouted in his head.
The bowie knife stirred and withdrew from the earth with a quiet hiss. It hung three inches off the ground, then fell back into the leaves again.
New cried out in amazement.
For a second he’d felt, actually felt, the knife clutched in his right hand. It had been burning hot.
He watched it to see if it would move again, but it didn’t. Still, it was free of the ground. He hooked his foot out and dragged it closer. Spiders crawled over his boot.
I want it…now, he said mentally, concentrating on feeling that knife in his hand again. On curling his fingers around the staghorn handle. On feeling its weight.
The knife jumped like a fish. Then lay still.
He was in a dream, floating. His head throbbed where he’d bumped it against a rock in the fall. There was a pressure like an iron band squeezing his temples. He’d never felt this way before, as if his mind were separating from his body, becoming disjointed, out of kilter. His heart was racing, and for a moment the pain in his head was so bad he thought he was going to pass out.
But he didn’t. The knife was still on the ground at his feet. Its blade was veined with rust, but the edge gleamed in the red, raw light.
New could feel its sharpness. A pulse of power beat between him and the knife, connecting them like a charge of electricity.
And New understood what it was.
Magic.
There was magic in that knife. It had lain so long in Briartop earth that it had absorbed some of Briartop’s magic. There was magic in it, and the magic was going to help New escape.
I want it, he commanded.
It didn’t move.
Now. I want it now. He visualized the knife rising from the ground—slowly, slowly, coming through the air toward his open hand—felt the cool staghorn handle against his skin, closed his hand around it. Now. I want it right now.
The knife jumped, jumped.
Now. Right now. Now, damn it! Again, rage sizzled through his bones.
As if obeying his command, the knife jumped high and hung, spinning, three feet off the ground. It began to move toward his fingers, but fell to the ground again. The next time was easier, but again it fell. Now it was on the ground beneath his right hand.
Come up, New commanded. Come up and into my hand. He almost giggled: Wait’ll Nathan hears about this! But the memory of Nathan came and went. He saw white moonlight on Nathan’s upturned face, and mentally screamed.
The magic knife spun up from the ground, higher, higher, whirling like a top, and its handle slid into New’s grasp as if he’d been born with it.
Quickly he started sawing at the thorns that held him. The coils around his chest parted with a brittle snapping sound, and leaked yellowish fluids. He cut his left arm free, and saw a bracelet of wounds around his wrist. The thorns around his neck were the hardest to cut loose, because some of them were in pretty deep, and he didn’t want to slash his throat.
By the time he’d cut away enough thorns to pull free, the light that filtered through the trees was warm and golden. He fashioned footholds in the dirt wall and, climbing up by grasping bushes and roots, pulled himself slowly to the rim. At the top, with the magic knife still clutched in his fist, New turned his grimy, blood-streaked face toward the hollow and shouted, “Die, damn you!” His voice was a weak croak, but it carried his anger sufficiently.
Then he made his way back to the path, where his blackberry buckets were being picked at by crows, and started running for home.
He never saw the thorns down in the hollow begin to turn black, wither—and die.
8
“PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS,” Margaret Usher said brightly.
Rix snapped himself back. “Just wandering,” he told her, and took another bite of sausage from his breakfast plate. In fact, he’d been thinking about what a gorgeous morning it was; they were sitting on the glass-enclosed breakfast porch at the rear of the Gatehouse, and from here the panorama of the gardens and the western mountain peaks was an unbroken blaze of color. Though it was only eight o’clock, a black gardener in a straw hat was already hard at work, sweeping stray leaves from the field-stone paths that crisscrossed the gardens. Marble statues of cherubs, fauns, and satyrs pranced through the flowers.
The sky was blue and clear. A squadron of ducks flew across Rix’s field of view. The breakfast was good, the coffee strong, and Rix had enjoyed a restful sleep after Puddin’ had left last night. When he’d taken his vitamins this morning, he’d looked in the mirror and seen that the bags under his eyes didn’t look quite as severe. Or was that only his hopeful imagination? Anyway, he felt fine, and even his appetite had picked up, because he was finishing all of his breakfast. He’d missed Cass’s cooking in the year that he’d been away.
“I heard Boone come in this morning,” Margaret said. Today she wore only a light coating of makeup, to accentuate her cheekbones. “About five, I think it was. You’d be surprised what I can hear when the house is quiet.”
“Really?” Instantly, Rix was on guard. Did she mean she’d heard him and Puddin’? Probably not. Her room was at the far end of the hallway, with many rooms between them.
“I can certainly hear Boone and that woman fighting like cats and dogs.” She shook her head, her red lips pressed together in disgust. “Oh, I told him not to marry her! I told him he’d be sorry, and you know I’m never wrong. Well, he’s sorry all right.”
“Why doesn’t he divorce her like he did those two others, if he’s so unhappy?”
She carefully folded her napkin and placed it beside her plate. A maid came in and began to carry away the dirty dishes. “Because,” Margaret said after the maid had gone, “there’s no telling what that trollop would say about us if she was let off this estate. She’s a drunken little fool, but she’s been an Usher now for two years, four months, and twelve days. That’s two years longer than either of the others. She knows…things about us that might find their way into print if she was allowed to run wild.”
“You mean the Malady?”
Margaret’s eyes clouded over. “Yes, that. And more. Like how much money we’re worth, and what our real-estate holdings are. She knows about the Caribbean island we own, the casino in Monte Carlo, the banks and the other companies. Boone has a mouth as big as a mountain. Can you imagine the headlines if there was a divorce? That little trollop wouldn’t accept an out-of-court settlement, like the other two.
She’d go straight to the National Enquirer with all sorts of lurid lies.”
“And lurid truths?” Rix asked.
“You have a very bad attitude about your family, Rix. You should be proud of who you are, and of the contribution your ancestors have made to this country’s survival.”
“Right. Well, I’ve always been the black sheep, haven’t I? I think it’s too late to act like a star-spangled drummer boy.”
“Please don’t mention flags,” she said coldly. She was remembering, Rix knew, a photograph that had been in several North Carolina newspapers. In it, Rix had been wearing a Jefferson Airplane T-shirt and waving a black flag; his hair was down to his shoulders, and he was walking in the front row of a crowd of Vietnam war demonstrators at the University of North Carolina. The picture had been snapped just minutes before the police waded in to break up their peace rally. Before the fighting was over, nine kids had broken bones and Rix sat in the gutter with a knot the size of a hen’s egg on his head, watching a sea of legs flow and ebb around him.
The photograph had also appeared on the front page of the weekly Foxton Democrat, with a circle around Rix’s head.
Walen had gone through the roof like a Roman candle.
“You’d do well to study the achievements of your ancestors,” Margaret suggested. Rix listened politely, with no trace of surprise on his face. “They’d teach you a thing or two about family pride.”
“And just how would I go about doing that, pray tell?”
She shrugged. “You might start by reading some of those books that Walen brought from the Lodge’s library. He’s been studying the family documents for the past three months.”
“What?” Rix’s heart gave a kick.
“Family documents. That’s what Walen had the servants bring out of the Lodge. Dozens of old ledgers and diaries and things, from the collection of family records. There’s a library in the Lodge’s basement with thousands of them. I’ve never seen it, of course, but Edwin’s told me about it.”
Rix was stunned. Family documents? Right here in the Gatehouse? “I thought you said you didn’t know what those books were.”
“Well, I don’t know exactly what they are, or why Walen’s been reading them. But I do know they came from the Lodge’s library.”
“You saw them?” Steady, he told himself. Don’t act too interested!
“Of course I saw them. I was here the morning they were brought in. Some of them are so mildewed they smell like dead fish.”
My God, Rix thought. He leaned his chin on his hand to keep from grinning. Family documents in the Gatehouse library! He’d hoped he could find something in there worth his attention, but this was a godsend! No, hold on a minute. There was a rip in the silver lining. “The library’s locked,” he reminded her. “Even if I wanted to browse through those old books, I couldn’t get in, could I?”
“Well, Walen has insisted that he wants it kept locked. But, of course, Edwin has the set of master keys. We do have to get in to dust and vacuum, don’t we? If we didn’t, the smell of mildew from that room would take over the house.” She blinked suddenly, and Rix knew she was thinking about Walen’s reek. “That was a nice breakfast, wasn’t it?” she asked, recovering quickly. “Boone’s going to be sorry he missed it.”
Rix was about to ask her more about the Lodge’s basement library when he heard a faint, steady whining sound. Birds burst from the trees. The whining noise grew louder. He looked toward the sky as a gleaming silver Bell Jetcopter streaked over the Gatehouse, circled slowly, and then settled down out of sight on the helipad.
“Oh, that might be your sister!” Margaret rose from her chair, craning to see. “Kattrina’s home!” she trilled.
But it wasn’t Katt who came up the pathway. There were two men, one wearing a military uniform and the other in a dark business suit. The one in the business suit wore sunglasses and carried a black briefcase.
“It’s just them again,” Margaret said, sitting down. She sighed softly. “They’re here to see Walen.”
The two men walked briskly through the gardens, then around the Gatehouse toward the front entrance.
“Who are they?” Rix asked.
“One’s from the Pentagon. I think you’ve met him before, but maybe not. General McVair. The other man is Mr. Meredith, from the armaments plant. Dr. Francis told your father he should have absolute rest, but Walen doesn’t listen.” She smiled at Rix, but her eyes were vacant. “When your father pulls out of this thing, we’re going on a vacation. Perhaps to Acapulco. That would be lovely in January, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” he said, watching her carefully, “it would be.”
“It’s sunny all the time in Acapulco. Your father needs a nice vacation. He needs to get out in the sun and laugh.”
“Excuse me.” Rix stood up. “I think I might take a walk. Enjoy the fresh air.”
“It’s a lovely day for a walk, isn’t it? You could go for a horseback ride, if you like.”
“I’ll find something to do. Thanks for the breakfast.” He left his mother sitting on the porch; he couldn’t bear the realization that she was living in a twilight world of false hopes and dreams, waiting for her husband to kick off the shroud and dance down the staircase like Fred Astaire. Her next trip would be to the Usher cemetery, on the eastern edge of the estate.
But right now he wanted to find Edwin. He wanted to get that master key and see for himself what was beyond the library’s door. He’d have to be very careful; he didn’t want anyone knowing what he intended to do, and now he regretted even telling Cass about it. If Walen ever got a hint he was going to shake some Usher coffins, the documents would be whisked back to the Lodge’s basement. He stopped a maid and asked if she’d seen Edwin, but she told him she hadn’t.
Rix went out of the Gatehouse. The sparkling air smelled like a fine, crisp white wine. Edwin might be any of a dozen places on the estate, commanding the hundred routine duties that went on every day. He walked through the gardens, taking the pathway that would lead him past the tennis courts to the Bodane house.
He passed the garage, a long, low stone structure with ten wooden doors that each slid upward to allow a car into its separate stall. At one time the garage had housed Usher carriages and coaches; now it held Boone’s red Ferrari, Katt’s pink Maserati, the new limo, a second limo in case the first had mechanical trouble, a red ’57 Thunderbird, a robin’s-egg-blue ’52 Cadillac, a white ’48 Packard, a gray ’32 Duesenberg, a Stutz Bearcat, and a Model T Ford in perfect condition. Those, anyway, were the cars that were in there the last time Rix had looked; the assemblage might have been upgraded during the past year.
The Bodane house, tiny compared to the Gatehouse, but itself a two-story Victorian manor, was tucked back amid the trees. Next to it was a small white garage that held the Bodanes’ Chevy station wagon. Rix walked up the steps to the front door and pressed the buzzer.
The door opened. Edwin stood there, capless, but wearing his uniform. “Rix,” he said, and smiled—but there was pain in his eyes. “Please come in.”
“I’m glad I caught you.” Rix entered the house. At once a wave of nostalgia crashed over him. This house, like his bedroom, hadn’t changed a bit: the walls were of softly glowing wood, adorned with samplers and needlepoint that Cass had done; the parlor floor was covered by a burgundy rug—threadbare in places—trimmed in gold; cozy, overstuffed chairs and a sofa were arranged around a red brick hearth where a small fire flickered; above the hearth was a wreath made of pine cones and acorns. The parlor’s two large bay windows looked directly toward the Gatehouse.
Rix had sat on that rug and dreamed before the hearth, while Cass read him stories, either Aesop’s Fables or Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales. Cass could break your heart with “The Brave Tin Soldier,” or make you laugh at the greedy fox who wanted all the grapes. Edwin made the best hot chocolate in the world, and his hand on your shoulder felt as strong as courage. Where had all the years gone, Rix wondered, a
s he looked around the parlor. What had happened to the little boy who sat in front of that fireplace with dreams in his eyes?
He had been swept into the furnace of reality with his ballerina bride, and all that remained was scorched metal.
“Did you want me for something?” Edwin asked, breaking the spell.
“Yes, I—” Something on the mantel caught his attention. He walked across the rug to it, and stood staring at a small framed photograph of himself at about seven or eight, wearing a suit and a bow tie, with his hair slicked back. On either side of him, holding his hands and smiling, were a much younger Edwin and Cass. A servant had taken that picture, he recalled. It was done on a hot July day—his birthday! His father and mother had gone to Washington on business, and taken Boone with them. Edwin and Cass had hosted a birthday party for him, inviting all the servants’ children and Rix’s friends from his private school in Asheville. He picked up the photograph and looked closely at it. Everyone was so happy then. The world was happy. There were no wars, or rumors of wars. No black banners or demonstrations or police riot batons. Life was stretched out like a red carpet.
“I’d forgotten about this,” Rix said softly. He looked from one face to the next, as Edwin came up behind him. Three happy people with linked hands, Rix thought. But there was another presence in the picture, something he’d never realized before.
Over Rix’s left shoulder, jutting above the full summer trees, was one of the Lodge’s towering chimneys. The Lodge had crashed his birthday party without his even knowing it.
Rix returned the photograph to its place on the mantel. “I’d like to get the library key from you,” he said, turning away from the hearth. “Dad’s offered me the use of the materials in there.”
“Do you mean…the documents that your father brought out of the Lodge?”
“Actually, I’m just looking for something about Wales. And coal mining.” Rix smiled. He felt his insides writhe. If there was anything on earth he hated to do, it was to lie to Edwin Bodane; but he feared that Edwin, out of loyalty to Walen, would balk at giving him the key if Rix told him the real reason. “Do you think there’s anything in the library on coal mines?”
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