Usher's Passing (36 page)

Edwin stared at Rix. "It was an Usher Armaments truck that swerved into their path," he said. "The driver—just a teenager— was so full of pills he didn't even know what state he was in. Wheeler Dunstan initiated a lawsuit against your father. Walen offered to settle out of court, but the amount was an insult. There's been no love lost between the Ushers and Dunstans. As events transpired, the case did not go to court. It came to light that the police had found a bourbon bottle in Dunstan's car. A nurse came forward who swore she'd smelled alcohol on his breath in the emergency room. Results of a blood test suddenly appeared: Wheeler Dunstan had been legally drunk at the time of the accident."

"But the bottle was planted?"

"Yes. I don't know when or how. Your father's money bought it all, Rix. Especially damaging was the revelation that Wheeler Dunstan was an alcoholic. It was a well-kept secret, but somehow your father found it out. Dunstan's advertisers began deserting him in droves. In the end, he took the offer and settled out of court. What else could he do?"

"And Dad got off with a wrist-slap?"

"A fine of a few thousand dollars, and a suspended sentence for the driver." Edwin watched the flickering flames, his shoulders hunched and his long legs stretched before him. "Up until that point, my eyes were closed. After I realized what your father had done—the
lengths
he'd gone to in order to avoid judgment—something inside me began to erode. I knew that Dunstan was working on an Usher history for years before I decided to help him. We have an agreement: I furnish him with the documents he needs, but I do not break my vow of silence. I say nothing of what I know of the Ushers. I will not discuss Walen's business affairs. I deliver the materials, leave them, and pick them up later. By the time the book is completed, Walen will be dead and Cass and I will be in Florida."

"Edwin," Rix said, "I went to see Wheeler Dunstan, to take a look at his manuscript. He wouldn't show it to me, but I traded information to him so I could find out how he was doing his research. I told him Dad's condition, and that Katt was going to take over the business. I had another reason for going there, too. Edwin,
I
should be the one writing that book. Not an outsider. I don't care what Dunstan's gone through." He heard the hard desperation in his voice; it shamed him, but he kept on talking.

"I
need
to write that book. I've got to. I took the library key from you so I could go through the old documents in there. Somehow, I have to make Dunstan trust me enough to let me on the project. If nothing more, I've got to get my name on it as a co-author."

Edwin sighed deeply, and shook his white-crowned head. "My God," he whispered. "How did you and I come to this point, Rix? Are we both to be consumed by sickness and loathing?"

Rix pulled up a chair beside Edwin and touched the man's arm. "I can't let this opportunity get away from me. I've been thinking of doing my own book on the family for years! Talk to Dunstan for me. Tell him I can help him finish the book. Let
me
take him the materials he needs. But make him understand how important it is to me. Will you do that?"

Edwin didn't reply; he stared at the fire, the dim orange light painting his face with highlights and shadows.

"Please,"
Rix begged.

Edwin covered Rix's hand with his own. "I'll talk to him," he said. "Tomorrow morning. I don't know how he'll react to it, considering how he feels about all Ushers. But I'll talk to him."

"Thank you. I need a book like this, Edwin."

"Is it so important to you?"

"Yes," he replied without hesitation. "It is."

Edwin smiled, but his eyes were dark and sad. "I love you, Rix. No matter what you do, I'll always love you. You brought light into this house when you were a small boy. I remember . . . we used to have our little secrets. Things you'd tell me that you didn't want anyone else to know." His smile turned melancholy. "I suppose it's only right that we share this one last secret, isn't it?"

Rix stood up, bent over the chair, and hugged Edwin. The old man seemed to be made entirely of jutting bones and tight sinews.

Edwin lifted a hand to pat Rix's shoulder, and they clung together, framed in firelight, without speaking.

THE WIND SCREAMED ACROSS BRIARTOP MOUNTAIN, AND NEW THARPE
sat up in his cot, with cold droplets of sweat on his face.

He'd dreamed of the Lodge again—the massive, illuminated, majestic Lodge where figures moved slowly past the glowing windows as if in some ghostly ballroom—but this time there'd been a difference. He'd been standing on the lakeshore, staring across at the house, and suddenly a pair of upper balcony doors had come open and someone had stepped out. The figure had motioned for him to hurry across the bridge, and New had heard his name called from the distance by a familiar voice.

It was his father's voice, calling him from that glowing palace. His father was standing on the balcony, urging him to cross the bridge, to hurry to the Lodge because the celebration was in New's honor.
Come home,
his father had called.
We're all here, waitin' for you to come home.

New had balked, though the pull of the Lodge on him was an irresistible force. In the dream he'd felt his skin ripple into goosebumps of fear and excitement. His father, an indistinct figure on the upper balcony, had waved and called,
Hurry, New! Come home with me!

Across the long bridge, the Lodge's front doorway had opened, throwing out a wide shaft of beautiful golden light. There was a figure standing in that doorway, its arms stretched out to receive him. New couldn't make out who it was, but he thought it wore a dark coat that flapped in the wind.

The Lodge wanted him, he knew. The figure in the doorway wanted him. If New crossed that bridge and entered the Lodge, he could have everything he'd ever desired. He'd never have to lie down on a hard cot in a cold room again; he'd have fine clothes, and good food to eat, and a rug to cover the floor in his bedroom, and books to read and time to wander the green forests of Usherland and know what it was like to call the Lodge his home. He stood at the entrance to the bridge, poised on the edge of a decision. He wanted to cross; he wanted to make his legs move.

But then the wind had screamed and he'd awakened, and now, as the wind shrilled past the cabin, leaking through holes in the roof and walls, he imagined it left a faint, seductive whisper in its wake:

—
come home—

He lay back down, bringing the thin blanket up to his chin, and stared at the ceiling. Joe Clayton and his wife had visited the house this afternoon, to see how New was doing. Birdie had trotted along, and barked irritably outside the window. Mr. Clayton had told New and his mother that the damnedest thing had happened this morning when he'd come out to feed Birdie: he'd found the dog standing about thirty yards from the house, staring toward the woods. Birdie was frozen in a point position, his tail standing straight up and his head ducked low. The dog wouldn't respond when Mr. Clayton called him. A thrown pinecone bounced off Birdie's side, and still the dog didn't move. It was only when Mr. Clayton had gotten right next to the animal and whacked his hand on Birdie's rump that the dog whirled around in a crazy circle, snapping at its tail and yowling. Birdie had stretched for about ten minutes, and then he was so hungry he'd almost snapped the food bowl up in his mouth. That dog, Mr. Clayton told New, is old and crazy and not worth a damn—but he sure can hold a point position like you ain't never seen!

Through chinks of silence in the rushing wind, New could hear Birdie's faint barking. It was the wind spookin' him, New thought. It could put even a dog's nerves on edge.

He closed his eyes, inviting sleep.

And then he heard the roof creak above his head.

At once his eyes were open again. He stared upward.

Timbers groaned softly. Then the roof creaked in a different place, over near the corner of the room.

New struck a match from the pack on the table beside his cot, turned up the lantern's wick, and lit it. The light spread slowly, and New swung his legs out from under the blanket.

Above his head, the roof moaned like an old man in sleep. New lifted the lantern high.

His heart pounded as he saw the pine boards bending inward. He heard a long, slow scraping—a claw, testing the roofs strength. Whatever was up there moved again; New followed its progress by watching the boards bowing. Then there was a sharp
crack!
and a nail clinked to the floor beside New's foot.

The animal remained still, as if listening.

New was frozen, watching the roof strain where the animal stood. It was the same heavy nocturnal thing that had been prowling around the cabin after his pa had died; whatever it was, New thought, the thing had to weigh upwards of three hundred pounds. It stalked across the roof, creaking wood marking its trail. The roof was weak; New feared the creature's weight might bring it crashing through.

A board popped loose with a high whine. The animal stopped again. In the silence left as a rush of wind swept by, New could hear the thing's low, rumbling growl.

It was the same ominous sound he'd heard when he was trapped in the pit.

Greediguts, New thought. The black panther that ran with the Pumpkin Man, now separated from New only by a thin layer of weather-warped pinewood.

Get away from here! New commanded mentally.
Get away!

The animal didn't move. New felt the hair at the back of his neck stir. The musky odor of a predatory cat filtered down into the room. New sensed that the creature was aware of him, or that it had seen a glimmer of light through cracks in the timbers. A claw scraped across wood; the thing was sniffing, picking up his scent.

New hurriedly put on his jeans and a heavy dark blue sweater. Then he took the lamp and went to the front room, where he lifted his pa's shotgun from its rack near the door. He broke open the breech to make sure it was loaded with two shells, then clicked it shut again. Above him, the roof groaned. The creature was following him.

In the kitchen, he took the flashlight from its place on a shelf. Armed with the shotgun and the flashlight, New was about to go outside when his mother's voice stopped him.

"Somethin's on the roof!" she whispered. "Listen to it!" She stepped into the range of the lamp that New had set aside, her face pallid and her arms wrapped around her chest. She was wearing a ragged old flannel robe; fear sparked in her eyes like ice crystals. "What is it, New? What's up there?"

"I don't know," he replied. He wasn't sure it was Greediguts; it might be something else that had wandered out of the deep woods. "I'm gonna go find out."

Myra's glance flickered toward the shotgun and the flashlight. "No!" she said urgently. "I ain't gonna let you do that!"

The roof was speaking again; boards popped and groaned as the creature moved over their heads. It was pacing back and forth. The roof was buckling badly where the thing stood; another nail popped loose and fell to the floor.

"Pa would've gone out," New said.

"You ain't your pa!" She grasped her son's arm. "It'll go away. It don't want nothin'. Just leave it be!" She suddenly cried out as nails burst free with the sound of firecrackers going off. New flicked on the flashlight and pointed it upward. The creature had moved across a particularly weak area of the roof, and several boards had cracked loose. His light probed through a hole the size of his fist.

New couldn't hear the thing moving anymore. Either it was off the roof, or it was standing very still. Wind shrilled through the hole and filled the room with a foretaste of winter. He gently pulled free from his mother's grip. "Pa would've gone out," he repeated, and she knew there was nothing more to say.

New followed the flashlight beam off the porch. He was already shivering with the cold. The wind roared around him, and dead leaves rolled through the air, snapping wildly at his cheeks as they passed. While Myra stood in the open doorway, New stepped off the porch and aimed his light up at the roof.

There was nothing up there. New played it slowly back and forth, the shotgun cradled under his right arm, his finger near the trigger. He could hear Birdie baying, and the eerie sound made his flesh crawl.