by Anne Rice
"Oh, darling," she said, "you're soaking wet."
Michael nodded. "That's true."
"Now don't be upset," said Bea, scoldingly, "everything turned out just fine. Mona and Yuri took care of everything. We were determined to have everything straightened out before you came back."
"That was kind of you," said Michael.
"You're exhausted," said Mona. "You need to rest."
"Now, come, you must get out of these wet clothes," said Beatrice. "You're going to be chilled. Are your things in the front room?"
He nodded.
"I'll help you," said Mona.
"Aaron. Where is Aaron?" asked Michael.
"Oh, he's just fine," said Beatrice. She turned and flashed a brilliant smile at him. "Don't you worry about Aaron. He's in the dining room having his tea. He snapped right into action when Mona and Yuri woke him up. He's fine. Just fine. Now I'm going downstairs to get you something hot to drink. Please let Mona help you. Get out of those clothes now."
She cast a long look up and down at him, and he looked down and saw the dark splatters ail over his sweater and pants. The clothes were so wet and so dark you couldn't tell the difference between the blood and the water. But when the clothes dried, you could.
Mona opened the door of the front bedroom and he followed her inside. There was the wedding bed with its white canopy. More flowers. Yellow roses. The draperies of the front windows were opened, and the street light shone in the wandering branches of the oaks. Like a treehouse, this bedroom, Michael thought.
Mona started to help him with his sweater. "You know what? These clothes are so old, I'm going to do you a real favor. I'm going to burn them. Does this fireplace work?"
He nodded.
"What did you do with the bodies of the two men?"
"Shhh. Don't talk so loud," she said with an immediate sense of immense drama. "Yuri and I took care of that. Don't ask again."
She pulled down his zipper.
"You know I killed it," he said.
She nodded. "Right. I wish I could have seen it. Just one time! You know, had a really good look at him!"
"No, you didn't want to see it, and don't ever go looking for it, don't ever ask me where I disposed of it, or..."
She didn't answer him. Her face seemed still, determined, beyond his influence, beyond his tenderness or his concern. Her own unique mixture of innocence and knowledge baffled him as surely now as it had ever done. She seemed unmarked in her freshness, her beauty, yet deep within some dangerous chamber of her own thoughts.
"You feel cheated?" he whispered.
Still she didn't answer. She'd never looked so mature--so knowing, so much the woman. And so much the mystery--the simple mystery of another being, alien to us by simple nature and separateness--one among many whom we will never fully possess or know or comprehend.
He reached into his pocket. He held out the muddy emerald, and he heard her gasp before he looked up again and saw the amazement in her face.
"Take this away with you," he said under his breath. "This is yours now. Take it. And don't ever, ever turn around and look over your shoulder. Don't ever try to understand."
Again, she was grave and silent, absorbing his words, but giving no hint of her own true response. Perhaps her expression was respectful; perhaps it was merely remote.
She closed her hand over the emerald as though to conceal it utterly. She pressed her closed hand into the bundle of his soiled clothes.
"Go bathe now," she said calmly. "Go rest. But first--the pants, and the socks and shoes. Let me get rid of them too."
Forty
THE MORNING LIGHT woke him up. He was sitting in her room, by the bed, and she was staring at the light just as if she could see it. He didn't remember falling asleep.
Sometime during the night he had told her the whole story. Everything. He had told Lasher's story and how he'd killed Lasher and how he'd slammed the hammer right into the soft spot in the top of Lasher's head. He didn't even know if he'd been talking loud enough for her to hear. He thought so. He had told it in a monotone. He had thought, She would want to know. She would want to know that it's finished and what happened. She had told the man in the truck that she was coming home.
Then he'd fallen quiet. When he closed his eyes he heard Lasher's soft voice in his memory, talking of Italy and the beautiful sunshine, and the Baby Jesus; he wondered how much Rowan had known.
He wondered if Lasher's soul was up there, if it was true that St. Ashlar would come again. Where would it be next time? At Donnelaith? Or here in this house? Impossible to know.
"I'll be dead and gone by then, that's for certain," he said softly. "It took him a century to come to Suzanne. But I don't think he's here any longer. I think he found the light. I think Julien found it. Maybe Julien helped him find it. Maybe Evelyn's words were true."
He said the poem over to her softly, stopping before the last verse. Then he said it:
Crush the babes who are not children
Show no mercy to the pure
Else shall Eden have no Springtime.
Else shall our kind reign no more.
He waited a moment, then he said, "I felt sorry for him. I felt the horror. I felt it. But I had to do what I did. I did it for the small reasons, if the love of one's wife and child can be called small. But there were the great reasons, and I knew the others wouldn't do it; I knew he would seduce and overcome all of them; he had to. That was the horror of it. He was pure."
After that he'd fallen asleep. He thought he had dreamed of England, of snowy valleys and great cathedrals. He figured he would dream these dreams for some time. Maybe for always. It was raining right through the sunshine. Good thing.
"Honey, do you want me to sing to you?" he asked softly. Then he laughed. "I only know about twenty-five old Irish songs." But then he lost his nerve. Or maybe he thought about Lasher's face when Lasher had told about singing to the people, the big innocent blue eyes. He thought of the smooth black beard and the hair on the upper lip, and the great childlike vivacity in him, and the way he had sung sotto voce to show them what the melody had been.
Dead, I killed it. He shuddered all over! Morning. Don't worry. Get up.
Hamilton Mayfair had come into the room.
"Want some coffee? I'll sit with her for a while. She looks so...pretty this morning."
"She always looks pretty," said Michael. "Thanks, I will go down for a while."
He went out and down the steps.
The house was full of light, and the rain sparkled on the clear panes of the windows.
He could still smell the fire in the house, which Mona had made last night in the bedroom fireplace when she burnt his clothes.
It made him want to make a real big fire in the living room and drink his coffee there, with the sun and the fire to make him warm.
He crossed the parlor to the first fireplace, his favorite of the two, with its flowers carved in marble, and he sat down, folded his legs Indian style and leaned back against the stone. He hadn't the energy to make a cup of coffee, or to get the kindling and the wood. He didn't know who was in the house. He didn't know what he would do.
He closed his eyes. Dead, it's dead, you killed it. It's finished.
He heard the front door open and close, and Aaron came into the room. He didn't see Michael at first, and then when he did he gave a little start.
Aaron was freshly shaved, and wore a pale gray wool Norfolk jacket and a clean white shirt and tie. His thick white hair was beautifully combed, and his eyes were rested and clear.
"I know you'll never forgive me," said Michael. "But I had to do it. I had to. That's the only reason I was ever here."
"Oh, there's no question of my forgiving you," said Aaron in a deliberately comforting voice. "Don't think of this, not even for a moment. Put it out of your mind as though it were something harmful to you to think about. Put it away. It's just--I couldn't help you. I couldn't have done it myself."
"Why? Wa
s it the mystery of the thing or did you feel sorry for it, or was it love?"
Aaron pondered. He glanced about, to make certain perhaps that no one else was near. He came forward slowly, then sank down on the edge of the needlepoint chair.
"I honestly don't know," he said, looking gravely at Michael. "I couldn't have killed it." His voice dropped so low Michael could scarcely hear him as he went on. "I couldn't have done it."
"And the Order? What about them?"
"I have no answers when it comes to the Order. I have messages--to call Amsterdam, to call London. To come back. I won't go. Yuri will find the answer. Yuri left this morning. It took wild horses to drag him from Mona, but he had to go. He has promised to call us both every night. He is so smitten with Mona that only this mission could distract him. But he has to seek an audience with the Elders. He is determined to discover what really happened, if Stolov and Norgan were sent to bring it back, and if so, were the Elders the ones who directed them in what they did."
"And you? What do you think, or should I say suspect?"
"I honestly don't know. Sometimes I think I've spent my life being the dupe of others. I think they will come soon and I will die, just the way the two doctors did. And you mustn't do anything if that should happen. There is nothing you can do. At other times I don't believe the Order is anything but a group of old scholars, gathering information that others would destroy. I cannot believe it had an occult purpose! I cannot. I believe we will discover that Stolov and Norgan made the decision to breed the being. That when the medical information fell into their hands, they saw something they couldn't resist. Must have been rather like it was for Rowan. Seeing this medical miracle. Must have been what she felt when she took the being out of this house. 'Scholars will but nourish evil. Scientists would raise it high.'
"Yes, perhaps so. They happened upon a dangerous and useful discovery. They broke faith with the others. They lied to the Elders. I don't know. I'm not part of it anymore. I'm outside. Whatever is discovered, it won't be made known to me."
"But Yuri? Could they hurt him?"
Aaron gave a discouraged sigh.
"They've taken him back. Or so they say. He isn't afraid of them, that's certain. He has gone back to London to face them. I think he thinks he can care for himself."
Michael thought of Yuri--of their brief acquaintance--not in terms of one picture, but many, and an overall impression of innocence and shrewdness and strength.
"I am not so worried," said Aaron. "Mainly because of Mona. He wants to come back to Mona. Therefore he'll be more careful. For her sake."
Michael smiled and nodded. "Makes sense."
"I hope he finds the answer. It's his obsession now, the Order, the mystery of the Elders, the purpose. But then maybe Mona will save him. As Beatrice saved me. Strange, isn't it, the power of this family? The power that they possess that has nothing whatsoever to do with...him."
"And Stolov and Norgan? Will someone come looking for them?"
"No. Put that out of your mind too. Yuri will take care of it. There is no evidence here of either man. No one will come looking, asking. You'll see."
"You seem very resigned but you're not happy," said Michael.
"Well, I think it's a bit early to be happy," said Aaron softly. "But I'm a damned sight happier than I was before." He thought for a moment. "I am not ready to sweep away all the beliefs of a lifetime because two men did evil things."
"Lasher told you," said Michael. "He told you it was the purpose of the Order."
"Ah, he did. But that was long long ago. That was in another time when men believed in things that they do not believe in now."
"Yes, I suppose it was."
Aaron sighed and gave a graceful shrug.
"Yuri will find out. Yuri will come back."
"But you're not really afraid they'll hurt you, if they are the bad guys, I mean."
"No," said Aaron. "I don't think they will bother. I do know them...somewhat...after all these years."
Michael made no answer.
"And I know I am no longer a part of them," Aaron continued, "in any conceivable way. I know that this is my home. I know I am married and I will stay with Bea and this is my family. And perhaps...perhaps...as for the rest of it...the Talamasca, its secrets, its purposes...perhaps...I don't care. Perhaps I stopped caring on Christmas when Rowan lost the first round of her battle. Perhaps I ceased to care altogether and for certain when I saw Rowan on the stretcher, and her face blank, her mind gone. I don't care. And when I don't care about something, in an odd way, I can be as determined about it as about anything else."
"Why didn't you call the police about Stolov and Norgan?"
Aaron seemed surprised. "You know the answer," he said. "I owed you that much, don't you think? Let me give you some of my serenity. Besides, Mona and Yuri made the decision, really. I was a bit too dazed to take credit. We did the simpler thing. As a rule of thumb, always do the simpler thing."
"The simpler thing."
"Yes, what you did to Lasher. The simpler thing."
Michael didn't answer.
"There is so much to be done," said Aaron. "The family doesn't realize that it is safe, but it soon will. There will be many subtle changes as people come to realize that it's finished. That the blinds are really open and the sun can really come in."
"Yes."
"We will get doctors for Rowan. We will get the best. Ah, I meant to bring a tape with me, the Canon by Pachelbel. Bea said Rowan loved it, that one day they had played it when Rowan was at Bea's. Bea's. I'm speaking of my own home."
"Did you believe all he said--about the Taltos, about the legends and the little people?"
"Yes. And no."
Aaron thought for a long moment, then he added:
"I want no more mysteries or puzzles." He seemed amazed at his own calm. "I want only to be with my family. I want for Deirdre Mayfair to forgive me for not helping her; for Rowan Mayfair to forgive me for letting this happen to her. I want you to forgive me for letting you be hurt, for letting the burden of the killing fall upon you. And then I want, as they say, to forget."
"The family won," said Michael. "Julien won."
"You won," said Aaron. "And Mona has just begun her victories," he said with a little smile. "Quite a daughter you have in Mona. I think I'll walk uptown to see Mona. She says she is so in love with Yuri that if he doesn't call by midnight, she may go mad! Mad as Ophelia went mad. I have to see Vivian and visit with Ancient Evelyn. Would you like to come? It's a beautiful walk up the Avenue, just the right length, about ten blocks."
"Not now. A little later perhaps. You go on." There was a pause.
"They want you up at Amelia Street," said Aaron. "Mona is hoping you will guide the restorations. The place hasn't been tampered with in many a year."
"It's beautiful. I've seen it."
"It needs you."
"Sounds like something I can handle. You go on."
The rain came again the next morning. Michael was sitting under the oak outside, near the freshly turned earth, merely looking at it, looking at the torn-up grass.
Ryan came out to talk to him, staying carefully to the path not to get mud on his shoes. Michael could see it was nothing urgent. Ryan looked rested. It was as if Ryan could sense that things were over. Ryan ought to know.
Ryan didn't even glance at the big patch of earth above the grave. It all looked like the moist and sparse earth around the roots of a big tree where grass would not grow.
"I have to tell you something," said Michael.
He saw Ryan stop--a sudden revelation of weariness and fear--then catch up with himself and very slowly nod.
"There's no danger anymore," Michael said. "From anyone now. You can pull off the guards. One nurse in the evenings. That is all we require. Get rid of Henri too, if you would. Pension him off or something. Or send him up to Mona's place."
Ryan said nothing, then he nodded again.
"I leave it to you, how you tell
the others," said Michael. "But they should know. The danger's past. No more women will suffer. No more doctors will die. Not in connection with this. You may hear again from the Talamasca. If you do, you can send them to me. I don't want the women to go on being frightened. Nothing will happen. They are safe. As for those doctors who died, I know nothing that would help. Absolutely nothing at all."
Ryan seemed about to ask a question, but then he thought better of it, obviously, and he nodded again.
"I'll take care of it," Ryan said. "You needn't worry about any of those things. I'll take care of the question of the doctors. And that is a very good suggestion, regarding Henri. I will send him uptown. Patrick will just have to put up with it. He's in no condition to argue, I suppose. I came out to see how you were. Now I know that you are all right."
It was Michael's turn to nod. He gave a little smile.
After lunch, he sat again by Rowan's bed. He had sent the nurse away. He couldn't stand her presence any longer. He wanted to be here alone. And she had hinted heavily that she needed to visit her own sick mother at Touro Infirmary, and he said, "Things are just fine around here. You go on. Come back at six o'clock."
She'd been so grateful. He stood by the window watching her walk away. She lit a cigarette before she reached the corner, then hurried off to catch the car.
There was a tall young woman standing out there, gazing at the house, her hands on the fence. Reddish-golden hair, very long, kind of pretty. But she was like so many women now, bone-thin. Maybe one of the cousins, come to pay her respects. He hoped not. He moved away from the window. If she rang the bell, he wouldn't answer. It felt too good to be alone at last.
He went back to the chair and sat down.
The gun lay on the marble-top table, big and sort of ugly or beautiful, depending on how one feels about guns. They were no enemy to him. But he didn't like it there, because he had a vision of taking it and shooting himself with it, and then he stared at Rowan, and thought: "No, not as long as you need me, honey, I won't. Not before something happens..." He stopped.
He wondered if she could sense anything, anything at all.