The Library at Mount Char (2 page)

Mentally, Carolyn sighed.
I suppose I should go down there and help them
. If nothing else, this would encourage David to divide his attentions among three victims rather than two.

But Carolyn did not lack guile. She would listen first.

David and Michael stood looking down over Garrison Oaks. Michael, like his cougars around him, was naked. David wore an Israeli Army flak jacket and a lavender tutu, crusty with blood. The flak jacket was his. The tutu was from the closet of Mrs. McGillicutty's son. This was at least partly Carolyn's fault.

When it became clear that they could not return to the Library, at least not in the near term, Carolyn had explained to the others that they would need to wear American clothes in order to blend in. They nodded, not really understanding, and set about rummaging through Mrs. McGillicutty's closets. David chose the tutu because it was the closest thing he could find to his usual loin cloth. Carolyn thought about explaining why this was not “blending in,” then decided against it. She had learned to take her giggles where she could find them.

Her nose wrinkled. The wind smelled of rot.
Is Margaret back as well?
But no, she realized, the rot was David. After a while you didn't notice so much, but she had been away. Flies buzzed around his head in a cloud.

A year or two ago, David took up the practice of squeezing blood from the hearts of his victims into his hair. He was a furry man and any one heart yielded only a few tablespoons, but of course they added up quickly. Over time, the combination of hair and blood hardened into something like a helmet. Once, curious, she asked Peter how strong this would be. Peter, whose catalog included mathematics and engineering, looked up at the ceiling for a moment, thinking. “Pretty strong,” he said meditatively. “Clotted blood is harder than you'd think, but it's brittle.
The strands of hair would tend to alleviate that. It's the same principle as rebar in concrete. Hmm.” He bent to his pad and scribbled numbers for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Pretty strong. It would probably stop a twenty-two. Maybe even a nine-millimeter.” For a while David had dripped it into his beard as well, but Father made him chisel this off when it became difficult to turn his head. All that was left was a longish Fu Manchu mustache.

“Where were you?” David demanded, shaking Michael by the shoulders. He spoke in Pelapi, which bore no resemblance at all to English, or any other modern language. “You've been off playing in the woods, haven't you? You finished up weeks ago! Don't lie to me!”

Michael was close to panic—his eyes rolled wildly, and he spoke in fits and starts, conjuring the words with great effort. “I was…uh-way.”

“Uh-way? Uh-way? You mean
away
? Away where?”

“I was with…with…the small things. Father
said
. Father said to study the ways of the humble and the small.”

“Father wanted him to learn about mice,” Jennifer translated, calling over her shoulder, grunting at the weight of her rock. “How they move. Hiding and the like.”

“Back to work!” David screamed at her. “You're wasting daylight!”

Jennifer plodded back to the pile and hoisted another rock, groaning under the load. David, six-foot-four and very muscular, tracked this with his eyes. Carolyn thought he smiled slightly. Then, turning back to Michael: “Gah. Mice, of all things.” He shook his head. “You know, I wouldn't have thought it possible, but you might be even more useless than Carolyn.”

Carolyn, safe in her hiding blind, made a rude gesture.

Jennifer dropped another rock into the underbrush with a dry crash. She straightened up, panting, and wiped her forehead with a trembling hand.

“Carolyn? What? I…not know…I…”

“Stop talking,” David said. “So, let me get this straight—while the rest of us have been killing ourselves trying to find Father, you were off playing with a bunch of
mice
?”

“Mice…yes. I thought—”

A flat crack rang out across the clearing. Carolyn, who had long experience of David's slaps, winced again.
He leaned into that one
.

“I did not ask what you
thought
,” David said. “Animals don't
think
. Isn't that what you want to be, Michael? An animal? Come to that, isn't it what you actually are?”

“As you say,” Michael said softly.

David's back was to her, but Carolyn could picture his face clearly. He would be smiling, at least a bit.
If the slap drew blood, perhaps he'll be giving us a look at his dimples as well
.

“Just…shut up. You're giving me a headache. Go help Jennifer or something.”

One of Michael's cougars rumbled. Michael interrupted it with a low yowl, and it went silent.

Carolyn's eyes narrowed. Behind David, she saw from the grasses on the western edge of the valley that the wind was shifting. In a moment the three of them would be downwind of
her
, rather than vice versa. In her time among the Americans Carolyn had gotten acclimated to the extent that their smells—Marlboro, Chanel, Vidal Sassoon—no longer made her eyes water, but Michael and David had not. With the wind coming from the west she would not stay hidden long.

She took the risk of staring directly at their eyes—Isha had taught her that to do so was to invite notice, but sometimes it was unavoidable. Now she was hoping for them to be distracted by something north of her. Sure enough, after a moment Michael's glance was drawn to a moth fluttering to a landing on the cairn. David and the cougars followed his gaze, as predators will do. Carolyn took advantage of the moment to slip back into the underbrush.

She circled down the hill, south and east. When she was a quarter mile distant she doubled back, this time walking without any particular caution, and announced her arrival by purposefully cracking a dry twig underfoot.

“Ah,” David said. “Carolyn. You're louder and clumsier than ever. You'll be a real American soon. I heard you blundering up all the way from the bottom of the hill. Come here.”

Carolyn did as she was told.

David peered into her eyes, brushed her cheek gently. His fingers were black with clotted blood. “In Father's absence, each of us must be mindful of security. The burden of caution is upon us all. You do understand?”

“Of cour—”

Still stroking her cheek, he punched her in the solar plexus with his other hand. She had been expecting this—well, this or something like it—but still the air whooshed out of her lungs. She didn't go to her knees, though.
At least there's that
, she thought, savoring the coppery taste of her hate.

David studied her for a moment with his killer's eyes. Seeing no hint of rebellion, he nodded and turned away. “Go help them with the cairn.”

She forced herself to draw a deep breath. A moment later the fog around the corners of her vision cleared. She walked over to Margaret's cairn. Dry autumn grasses brushed against her bare legs. A truck roared by on Highway 78, the sound muffled by the trees. “Hello, Jen,” she said. “Hello, Michael. How long has she been dead?”

Michael didn't speak, but when he came near he gave her neck an affectionate sniff. She sniffed back, as was polite.

“Hello, Carolyn,” Jennifer said.

Jennifer dropped the stone she carried into the underbrush and wiped the sweat from her brow. “She's been down since the last full moon.” Her eyes were very bloodshot. “So, that's what? About two weeks now.”

Actually, it was closer to four weeks.
She's stoned again
, Carolyn thought, frowning a little. Then, more charitably,
But who could blame her? She's been alone with David
. All she said was, “Wow. That's quite a bit longer than usual. What's she doing?”

Jennifer gave her an odd look. “Looking for Father, of course. What did you think?”

Carolyn shrugged. “You never know.” Just as Michael spent most of his time with animals, Margaret was most comfortable with the dead. “Any luck?”

“We'll see shortly,” Jennifer said, and looked pointedly at the pile of rock. Carolyn, taking the hint, walked over to the pile and hefted a medium-sized stone. They worked in silence with quick, practiced efficiency. With the three of them at it, it wasn't long before the pile was
gone, scattered throughout the surrounding underbrush. The ground beneath it had sunk only a little since the burial. It was still relatively soft. They squatted down on their knees and dug at it with their hands. Six inches down, the smell of Margaret's body was thick. Carolyn, who hadn't done this in some time, stifled a gag. She was careful to make sure David didn't see. When the hole was about two feet deep she touched something squishy. “Got her,” she said.

Michael helped brush away the dirt. Margaret was bloated, purple, rotting. The sockets of her eyes boiled with maggots. Jennifer hoisted herself out of the grave and went to gather her things. As soon as Margaret's face and hands were uncovered, Carolyn and Michael wasted no time getting out of the pit.

Jennifer took a little silver pipe out of her bag, lit it with a match, and took a deep hit. Then, with a sigh, she hopped down and began her work. Stoned or not, she was very gifted. A year ago Father had paid her the ultimate compliment, surrendering the white sash of healing to her. She, not Father, was now the master of her catalog. She was the only one of them he had honored in this way.

This time the murder wound was a vertical trench in Margaret's heart, precisely the width and depth of David's knife. Jennifer straddled the corpse and laid her hand over the wound. She held it there for the span of three breaths. Carolyn watched this with interest, noting the stages at which Jennifer said
mind, body
, and
spirit
under her breath. Carolyn was careful to give no outward sign of what she was doing. Studying outside your catalog was—well, it wasn't something you wanted to be caught at.

Michael moved to the other side of the clearing, away from the smell, and wrestled with his cougars, smiling. He paid the rest of them no attention. Carolyn sat with her back against one of the bull's bronze legs, close enough to watch as Jennifer worked. When Jennifer took her hand away the wound in Margaret's chest was gone.

Jennifer stood up in the grave. Carolyn guessed this was to get a bit of fresh air rather than for any clinical purpose. The stench was bad enough over where Carolyn was, but in the pit it would be overwhelming. Jennifer took a deep breath, then knelt again. She furrowed her brow, brushed
away most of the insects, then knelt and put her warm mouth over Margaret's cold one. She held the embrace for three breaths, then drew back, gagging, and set about rubbing various lotions on Margaret's skin. Interestingly, she applied the lotion in patterns, the glyphs of written Pelapi—first
ambition
, then
perception
, and finally
regret
.

When that was done, Jennifer stood up and scrambled out of the grave. She started toward Carolyn and Michael, but after two steps her eyes widened. She cupped her hand over her mouth, bolted into the underbrush, and retched. When her stomach was empty she walked over to join Carolyn. Her steps were slower and shakier than before. A thin film of sweat glistened on her brow.

“Bad?” Carolyn asked.

By way of answer Jennifer turned her head and spat. She sat down close and laid her head on Carolyn's shoulder for a moment. Then she fished out her little silver pipe—American, a gift from Carolyn—and fired it up again. Marijuana smoke, thick and sweet, filled the clearing. She offered it to Carolyn.

“No thanks.”

Jennifer shrugged, then took a second, deeper drag. The coal of the pipe flared in the polished bronze of the bull's belly. “Sometimes I wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“If we should bother. Looking for Father, I mean.”

Carolyn drew back. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I—” Jennifer sighed. “No. Maybe. I don't know. It's just…I wonder. Would it really be that much worse? If we just…let it go? Let the Duke, or whoever, take over?”

“If the Duke repairs himself to the point where he can start feeding again, complex life will be history. It wouldn't take long, either. Five years, probably. Maybe ten.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jennifer fired up her pipe again. “So instead we have Father. The Duke…well, at least his way would be painless. Peaceful, even.”

Carolyn made a sour face, then smiled. “Had a rough couple of weeks with David, did you?”

“No, that isn't—” Jennifer said. “Well, maybe. It actually
was
a pretty goddamn rough couple of weeks, now that you mention it. And where have you been, anyway? I could have used your help.”

Carolyn patted her shoulder. “I'm sorry. Here, give me that.” Jennifer passed the pipe. She took a small puff.

“Still, though,” Jennifer said. “Doesn't it ever get to you? Serious question.”

“What?”

Jennifer waved her arm, a gesture that took in the grave, Garrison Oaks, the bull. “All of it.”

Carolyn thought about it for a minute. “No. Not really. Not anymore.” She looked at Jennifer's hair and picked a maggot out. It squirmed on the end of her finger. “It used to, but I adjusted.” She crushed the maggot. “You can adjust to almost anything.”

“You can, maybe.” She took the pipe back. “I sometimes think the two of us are the only ones who are still sane.”

It crossed Carolyn's mind to pat Jennifer's shoulder or hug her or something, but she decided against it. The conversation was already more touchy-feely than she was really comfortable with. Instead, by way of changing the subject, she nodded in the direction of the grave. “How long will it be before…?”

“I'm not sure,” Jennifer said. “Probably a while. She's never been down this long before.” She grimaced and spat again. “Blech.”