“You’ll tell me who it is,” Rix demanded.
Dunstan’s face tightened. In his eyes was scorching fury. “Don’t you dare use that tone of voice to me, boy!” he shouted. “You’re not at Usherland now, you’re in my house! You don’t snap your fingers and make me jump, you little—”
“Dad,” Raven interrupted, putting both hands on his knotty shoulders. “Calm down, now, come on.”
“You don’t order me around,” Dunstan told Rix, though his voice had lost some of its power. “You hear me?”
“The name.” Rix continued as if the outburst had never happened. “I want it.”
“I know all about your childhood, boy. I know things about you that you’d rather forget. I know how Boone used to beat you up, and how Walen whipped you with a belt till you bled.” His eyes had become fierce slits. “I know you hate Walen Usher as much as I do, boy. You don’t really want that name. Just go. Take the letters, if you want ’em.”
“The name,” Rix repeated.
When it was spat out to him, Rix’s knees almost buckled.
23
LATE AFTERNOON SHADOWS WERE deepening across Usherland as Rix walked from the garage to the Bodane house. He knocked heavily at the door and waited for an answer.
Edwin looked dapper and fresh, though he’d put in a full day’s work. He was wearing neither his cap nor his gray blazer, but instead a pinstriped blue shirt with his dark, razor-creased trousers. The shirt was open at the neck, showing a wisp of white hair. “Rix!” he said. “Where have you been all afternoon? I was looking for—”
“Is Cass here?” Rix interrupted.
“No. She’s over at the Gatehouse, cooking dinner. Is something wrong?”
Rix stepped into the house. “How about Logan? Is he around?”
Edwin shook his head. “He’s been working at the stables today. I expect him here in about Fifteen minutes, though. What’s going on?” He closed the door and waited for Rix to explain.
The younger man walked across the parlor to warm his hands before a small fire that crackled in the hearth. Alongside Edwin’s favorite easy chair was this afternoon’s edition of the Asheville paper. A mug of hot tea steamed on the little oak table beside the chair, and there was a scratchpad and a pen. Edwin had been doing the crossword puzzle.
“It’s going to be cold tonight,” Rix said; his voice sounded hollow in the large room. “The wind’s already started to pick up.”
“Yes, I noticed. Can I get you something? I’ve got some jasmine tea, if you’d—”
“No. Nothing, thank you.”
Edwin walked to the table, picked up his mug, and sipped at the tea. Over the rim, his eyes were alert and watchful.
“I know about Wheeler Dunstan,” Rix finally said. “Damn it, Edwin!” His gaze flared. “Why didn’t you tell me you were helping him research that book of his?”
“Oh.” It was spoken in a whisper. “I see.”
“I don’t. Dunstan told me you’ve been bringing him materials from the Lodge’s library since August. And there I sat, telling Cass about how I wanted to do a history of the family, and she was talking about vows of loyalty!”
“Loyalty,” Edwin repeated softly. “That has an ominous sound, doesn’t it? Rather like the sound of a key turning in a cell door. Cass doesn’t know, Rix. I don’t want her to know, ever.”
“But what was all that crap about tradition? About ties to the past and all that? I don’t understand why you’re helping Dunstan!”
Edwin suddenly looked very tired and old, and the sight of him standing in the fading golden light almost broke Rix’s heart. Edwin took a long, deep breath and eased himself into his chair. “Where shall I begin, then?”
“How about the beginning?”
“Easily said.” He smiled bitterly. The lines around his eyes were deep. He stared into the fire, focusing on nothing. “I’m sick,” he said. “I’m sick to death of…dark things. Evil things, Rix. Hurts and secrets and rattling bones in chains. Oh, I knew what went on here when I was a boy. It didn’t bother me then. I considered it exciting. See, I was just like Logan. Just as arrogant, just as…stupid, really. I had to learn for myself, and, oh God, what an education I’ve gotten!”
“What kind of dark things? What do you mean?”
“Spiritual darkness. Moral darkness. Blasphemy and decay.” His eyes closed. “Poe’s tale may have been fiction, Rix, but it cut very close to the bone. The Ushers have everything. Everything. But they are dead in their souls. I’ve known it for a long time, and I cannot take that knowledge very much longer.” His voice cracked; he paused, gathering strength to speak again.
“I still don’t understand.”
Edwin’s eyes opened. They were as red as the embers in the fire. “When your father passes away,” he said, “the Usher empire is going to be torn to pieces. Walen will die soon. Perhaps a matter of days. Or hours. He wants to pass the estate and business to Kattrina; I’m sure you know that by now. Boone expects it to go to him. He’ll fight Kattrina in court. It’ll be a prolonged, messy affair. Boone can’t win, of course, but he’ll do everything in his power to discredit Kattrina. He’s money-mad, Rix. He loses upwards of five thousand dollars every night in poker games. He bets twenty-five thousand dollars on one play of a football game. It doesn’t mean a damned thing to him, because he knows he can always get more. Mr. Usher gives him an allowance of three hundred thousand a year, and whenever Boone wants an advance, he simply writes out an IOU to your father. But Boone gambles it all away. In court, he’s going to smear your sister with her drug problems. He’ll go to every smut-sheet in this country, trying to ruin her.”
When he picked up the mug again, his hand was unsteady. “Kattrina can’t take that kind of pressure, Rix. She thinks she can, but she’s wrong. I know. I’ve watched her grow up. By the time Boone is finished with her, Kattrina will be ready for an institution—or a coffin.”
“Are you suggesting that Dad should change his mind and give the estate and business to Boone?”
“No! God, no. Boone would destroy the business. He shouldn’t be allowed to run loose. Of course, Puddin’ doesn’t help matters. She’s a further complication in a very sticky web.”
“What does all this have to do with Wheeler Dunstan’s book?” Rix asked.
“I’m explaining my frame of mind. Please be patient. In any event, Usher Armaments is on the verge of total disaster. Without a guiding hand, it’ll be ripped apart by other arms companies and conglomerates. They’re waiting in the wings right now. The family will never be poor, but without the business they’ll be stripped of power.”
“That might be the best thing that ever happened to us.”
“It might be,” Edwin agreed. “Though if Usher Armaments is lost, so is a great chance for world peace.”
“What? Surely you don’t believe that.”
“Yes,” he said, “I do. Most strongly. The Usher name stands for power and reliability. In itself, it is a great deterrent to hostile foreign countries. If the production of weapons systems using Usher technology is stopped and the older systems are outdated—which they most certainly will be—then the world may be primed for disaster. I’m no weaponry expert, and I abhor war as much as any man alive, but the question remains: Do we dare to stop producing the missiles and bombs? I used to have faith in mankind, Rix. That was when I was much younger and more foolish. Listen to me go on! I must sound like a total damned idiot.”
“The book,” Rix reminded him. “Why are you helping Dunstan research it?”
“Because I’m tired of pretending that I have no eyes nor ears, nor mouth to speak. I’m tired of being an appliance, or a coatrack, or a piece of furniture. I’m a human being!” He announced it with dignity, though his eyes were glazed. “I’ve seen many things in my lifetime, Rix. Most of them I could do nothing about, though they turned my stomach and made my blood freeze.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I’ll tell you what happened to my loyalty, if you like. If you
really want to hear it.”
“Go ahead.”
“All right.” He folded his hands before him, lost in thought. “You’ve seen Wheeler Dunstan. He’s crippled. His daughter—a lovely woman—has a scar across one eyebrow, and she walks with a limp. I know how that came to be.”
“I’m listening.”
“Good. I want you to listen. I want you to understand what happened to my loyalty. In November of 1964, Wheeler Dunstan and his daughter and wife were involved in an automobile accident on the Interstate south of Asheville. They’d gone to visit the wife’s family for Thanksgiving, as I recall. In any event, the accident was…very bad. A diesel truck swerved into their lane, skidded on ice, and slammed into the car. Dunstan’s spine was injured, the little girl’s leg and arm were broken, the wife suffered numerous internal injuries and fractures. But the worst part is that the car had gone up underneath the truck. It was pinned there, and the police couldn’t get them out. As I understand it, Dunstan’s wife was in hideous agony. The little girl was crushed against her, and had to listen to her mother sob and scream for hours, until the wreckage could be unsnarled. Dunstan’s wife lingered in the hospital for several days before she died. He went through months of therapy before he could even use a wheelchair. I suppose Raven came out the best, though God only knows what she sees in her nightmares.”
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.
24
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 damnede
st 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.
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