Usher's Passing (21 page)

New closed the door and sat down on his cot. He smelled the medicine his mother had used on his cuts: tobacco juice and iodine. It had stung him like the Devil's pitchfork.

He'd dreamed of the Lodge again last night. The house was ablaze with lights, the brightest things New had ever seen in his life, and as he'd watched, he'd seen figures pass back and forth behind the windowglass. They moved slowly, with stately cadence, as if they were dancing at a huge party. And in the dream, as it usually happened, he'd heard his name called as if from a vast distance, the whispering, seductive voice that he thought sometimes lured him to the edge of The Devil's Tongue.

Questions about the Pumpkin Man plagued him. What was the thing, and why had it taken Nathan? Better to ask the moon why it changed shape, he thought. The Pumpkin Man lived in the wind, in the trees, in the earth, in the thorns. The Pumpkin Man came out from his hiding places to snatch the unwary away. If I hadn't fallen into those thorns, New told himself, Nathan would still be here. He looked at Nathan's cot. I could've saved him

. . . somehow. I'm the man of the house, and I could've done s
omething.

Couldn't I?

His pa would've let him talk to that woman, he knew. His pa wasn't afraid of anything. And now he was the man of the house, and Nathan's cot was empty.

New lifted his cot's thin mattress and took out the magic knife.

He'd brought it home hidden inside his jacket, tucked up his sleeve out of sight. It was a trick his pa had shown him once; you put a knife up your sleeve, and when you want it you just straighten your arm out real fast and it slides right into your hand. Pa had been a hard drinker a long time ago, before he'd married Ma, and New suspected his father had used that trick to protect himself in some of the rough backhills honkytonks.

The magic knife was his secret. He hadn't shown it to his mother, and he didn't know exactly why, but he knew he wanted to test it further before he told her.

He laid it on Nathan's cot and then sat back down again.

I want it, he said in his mind, and held his bandaged hand out.

The knife didn't move.

He had to want it harder. He focused all his attention on urging the magic knife to come to him. I want it now, he thought.

Maybe the knife shivered—and maybe it didn't.

The image of the dark shape with Nathan under its arm came to him unbidden. He saw the moonlight on his brother's face, felt the thorny coils holding him tight as he tried to struggle, saw in his mind a hideous grin spreading across the Pumpkin Man's malformed head.

He took a deep breath.

I WANT IT NOW!

The magic knife flew up from the cot with a suddenness that amazed him. It spun in midair, gathering speed, and then came end over end toward his hand.

But it was too fast, faster than he could control, and he realized that the knife might go right through him and into the wall.

And then his mother opened the door to tell him she was sorry she'd lost her temper, and she was looking into the room when the knife curved in the air, inches away from his body, and slammed violently upward into the ceiling, three feet above her head.

She gasped, the breath shocked out of her.

The knife stuck in the ceiling and stayed there, quivering with a sound like a broken fiddle string.

RIX
AWAKENED IN THE EMBRACE OF HIS GRANDMOTHER'S GHOST.

The room was a hazy gold, filled with sunlight that streamed through the trees outside. It was after ten o'clock; Rix was ravenously hungry, and he regretted that no one had awakened him for breakfast. Lunch wouldn't be served until twelve-thirty.

He rose from the bed and stretched. This morning he'd read in Nora Usher's diary until almost two o'clock, and scenes of Usher life in 1917 and 1918 stayed in his mind as vividly as the old sepia-toned photographs he'd found in the library. After the wedding, Nora's entries in her diary had become more and more terse and erratic. He could sense a change in her personality, from that of a sheltered child to that of a bewildered but awesomely wealthy woman. Whole months went by without a notation, or sometimes a month was summed up simply in a phrase describing a dinner party or some other activity. It was clear that Nora was bored out of her skull at Usherland, and that Erik— once he had her under his thumb—had tired of her very quickly indeed.

Rix washed his face with cold water in the bathroom, and with a finger traced the deep lines around his eyes. But were they less deep than the day before? Was his complexion less pale, his eyes less weary-looking? He knew he felt fine, but he took his vitamins anyway.

There was a knock at his bedroom door, and Rix opened it.

"Rise and shine," Cass said, bringing in a tray of scrambled eggs, sausage patties, grits, and a small pot of coffee.

"Good morning. Sorry I overslept breakfast."

"I saved you some. Were you up late last night?" She set the tray down on his desk—right beside, Rix realized, the open diary of Nora Usher.

"Yes. Pretty late."

If she noticed the diary, Cass didn't react to it. Her smile was broad and sunny. "Your mother wanted to wake you up. She had to eat alone this morning, but I persuaded her to let you sleep."

"Thanks. The food looks great. Where was Boone this morning?"

"I don't think he came home before sunrise." Before Rix could reach the diary, Cass had turned and was pouring him a cup of coffee. "His love of poker is bad for his bank account. What's this?" She nodded toward the open book.

"Just . . . something I'm reading."

"It looks very old." Rix saw her eyes flicker across the page, and she stopped pouring. "Where did you get it, Rix?" she asked, and he heard from her tone of voice that she knew what it was. He didn't respond for a few seconds, trying to think of a good story, but then she faced him and he knew he couldn't lie to her.

"Edwin gave me the library key."

"Oh. Then . . . you know about the books that were brought from the Lodge."

"That's right, and I also know about the Usher history that Wheeler Dunstan's writing. Cass, why didn't you tell me about that?"

She set the pot aside, avoiding Rix's gaze. "I don't know," she said with a soft sigh. "I guess I just. . . didn't think it was important."

"Not
important
?" he asked incredulously. "Some stranger's been working for six years on a history of the family, and you don't think that's important? Come on, Cass! When Boone told' me about it, I almost hit the ceiling! If anybody should write that book, it should be me. Not a stranger."

"Dunstan will never finish it," she said calmly, and lifted her eyes to his.

"But it seems to have worried Dad enough to send a lawyer after him."

"Your father values his privacy. He wants to protect the Usher name. Can you blame him?"

Rix paused. On Cass's face was such firm resolve that he felt tugged toward her point of view. "No," he said. "I guess not."

"Right now," she continued, "any press coverage would be bad for your family's situation. Sooner or later the reporters are going to find out your father's dying. They'll swarm all over Usherland—God forbid. But I hope that'll be after the estate is settled and the business has changed hands."

Rix grunted, picked up his cup, and sipped at the coffee.

"Who's Dad got his eye on?" he asked, trying to sound casual about it. "Boone or Katt?"

"I can't say. Edwin thinks Mr. Usher favors your sister. She has the better education."

Rix shook his head. "No, I can't see her wanting it. She's too happy doing what she does now." The next question came out before he could stop it: "Is she staying straight?"

"As far as I know," she replied, and shrugged. "She's sworn off everything but an occasional glass of wine. She still smokes too much, though—just regular cigarettes, none of that funny stuff. After what happened in Tokyo, well—" She left the rest unsaid.

Katt had been caught entering Japan on a modeling assignment several years ago with twelve grams of high-grade coke and an ounce of Maui Wowie stashed in jars in her makeup case. The Japanese police had crashed down hard on her, and the mess had dragged on for almost a month. Rix, at that time busy working on a novel about witches, called
Congregation,
had seen the stories in the papers; in one front-page picture, Katt was wan and unkempt, being supported between her father and Boone as they entered a limo in front of a police station. Walen's cane was raised threateningly toward the photographers, and Boone's mouth curled in a snarled curse.

"So"—Cass motioned toward the diary—"are you reading that for pleasure . . . or research?"

"If I tell you that I really do intend to write the book, will you go to Edwin or Dad?"

She frowned, two lines deepening between her eyes, and thought for a moment. "I took an oath of loyalty to your father, Rix," she said finally. "Just as Edwin did. I'm bound by that oath to tell him if I feel something's going on he should know about."

Suddenly Rix was struck by a horrifying thought. Cass might not even have to tell Walen. If his hearing was sharp enough to pick up voices in the living room, he could certainly hear this conversation right now! Still, Walen wouldn't completely understand what they were talking about—or would he? "He can hear us, can't he?" Rix asked in a nervous whisper, his heart pounding. "Is that what you wanted, for him to hear?"

"No. He can't hear. I took Mrs. Reynolds her breakfast an hour ago, and he was asleep. She'd given him his tranquilizers, because he had a restless night."

Cass had never lied to him, and he could see in her face now that this was the truth. Still, he was wary. "Will you tell him?" he asked, keeping his voice low. Before she could answer, he grasped her hand. "Please don't, Cass. I'm begging you. Give me a chance. Ever since . . . Sandra died, things haven't been going too well for me. I can't make my ideas work anymore; everything comes out scrambled and screwed up. Sandra helped me talk things out, and she kept me going. Without her . . . I just can't get a handle on anything anymore." He squeezed her hand. "I have to start working on another book, Cass. If I don't, Dad will have been right about me—I'll be nothing but a hack who had a stroke of good luck."

"Why are you so sure you could write a family history? It seems to me that writing a novel would be so much easier."

"I'm not sure, but I've got to try it. The research will be hard, yes, but the story's already written! All I have to do is put it together. What if Wheeler Dunstan does finish it first? He's got a six-year head start on me! If I lose my chance, I don't know what I'll do."

Her face was a mirror of her conflicting emotions. "I . . . took an oath."

"You and Edwin are about to retire. You'll be long gone by the time I finish the book. All I'm asking of you is that you give me some time. If you tell Dad, he'll send all the documents back to the Lodge, and if that happens there's no way I can get to them.
Please.
Time is all I'm asking for."

Cass pulled her hand free. "I'll have to think about this. I can't promise you one way or the other."

Rix felt clammy, and his heart continued to pound.

"Are you all right?" Cass asked. "You look pale."

He nodded. "I need some breakfast, I guess."

"Well, eat it before it gets cold." She walked to the door and I paused before she went out. "You've put me in a bad spot, Rix," she said quietly. "I love you—but I love Mr. Usher, too."

"Whom do you love more?" he asked.

Cass left the room without answering.

Rix felt slimy inside; asking her to make a choice like that was a manipulation his father might have used. If she told Walen about his idea, though, he might as well forget about it. The idea rightfully belonged to him, not to a stranger! He touched his temple and felt a sheen of cold sweat.

The skeleton with bloody eye sockets swung back and forth, back and forth in his mind. Droplets of blood ran down the white cheekbones. Sandra's hair floated in the red water.

"Failure," he heard his father say. "You're nothing but a damned failure . . ."