The old man gripped his walking stick tightly. His eye was unflinching. “He was about to give in, boy. The stones he’d built in his soul were comin’ apart at the seams. That’s why… I had to make sure he couldn’t listen no more.”
Myra sucked in her breath. New hadn’t moved, but now his heart was pounding.
“I killed him, boy,” the Mountain King said quietly. “Surely as if I’d put a gun to his head and blowed his brains out. He come upon me on his way down the mountain, the day it happened. I knew the kind of work he did. He was weak, so it didn’t take much; all he had to do was fill up a tire with air—and keep fillin’ it till it blew up in his face. He never even knowed what he was doin’.”
New was silent; all the blood had rushed from his face, and blue veins throbbed at his temple. It was Myra who spoke first, in an incredulous, hoarse voice: “You…you ain’t nothin’ but a crazy old man!” She came up behind her son. “You didn’t even know my Bobby! Ain’t nothin’ special about you! You’re just a crazy old liar!”
“Look at me, boy,” the Mountain King commanded. He thrust his cane out and rested it beneath New’s chin. “You know if I’m lyin’ or not, don’t you?”
New brushed the cane aside. He looked helplessly at Raven, and started to speak, but then his voice cracked and he stood there dumbfounded, his sallow face mirroring the battle of emotions within him. He forced himself to return the old man’s gelid stare. “You’re…a crazy old man,” New said, with an obvious effort. “Ain’t nothin’ to you a-tall!” Abruptly he turned and left the house; Myra shot a poisonous glance at Raven and hurried after her son.
The Mountain King sighed deeply. His lungs rattled, and he fended off a fit of coughing. “He knows,” he said when he’d recovered his breath. “He didn’t want to say it before his ma, but he knows.”
And you’re as nutty as a Christmas fruitcake, Raven thought. The shape of the skeleton under those rags and papers sent a shiver up her spine. She’d assumed it was the old man’s sister—but what if it wasn’t? What if it was the skeleton of one of those children whose pictures were on the posters she’d had printed up? “When did your sister die?” she asked.
“I don’t know the year,” he said wearily, and rubbed his good eye. “She was twenty years old…or twenty-two. I can’t recall. You seen her bones.”
“Why didn’t you bury her?”
“Didn’t want nothin’ gettin’ to her. Swore I’d protect her, and that’s what I did.” He hobbled over to the bed, lifted the tattered blanket, and reached under a mass of rags. “Didn’t want the thing that killed her to chew her bones.” He withdrew a small skull that had been all but crushed; the lower jaw was missing, the nasal area smashed in. “The pant’er did this. Caught her in broad daylight, at the stream.” Gently he set the skull down again and picked up the can of mixed fruit he’d set aside. “The boy knows,” he muttered. “He knows.”
“Knows what?”
The Mountain King stared at her, and smiled thinly. “That he’s like me,” he said, thrusting his forefinger through the top of the can as if it were wet cardboard. He withdrew the finger and licked fruit syrup off.
Raven had had enough. She fled the house. Behind her she could hear the old man laughing; his laughter erupted into spasmodic coughing. She ran past the figures on the wall, over the ground that had been scorched to glass, and she never looked back.
When she reached her car, she received a new shock.
The Volkswagen now faced downhill. Something had picked up the car and turned it around. She slid quickly under the steering wheel and started the car.
She was almost halfway down Briartop when she realized she’d run through the ruins.
Her limp was gone.
27
WHEN WHEELER DUNSTAN OPENED the front door, Rix offered him the Baird Retreat’s casebook. Dunstan paged carefully through it, taking his own sweet time, and then he motioned Rix inside without a word.
Dunstan put the casebook on a table and began filling his corncob pipe with tobacco. “I had a call from Mr. Bodane this mornin’,” he finally said. “He verified what Raven told me about you, that you’re a published writer. Called the library yesterday to see if they had any of Jonathan Strange’s books over there. They didn’t. So I sent one of the fellas from the Democrat over to the bookstore at Crockett Mall.” His wheelchair whirred across the room to a bookshelf, and he showed Rix the paperback copies of Congregation and Fire Fingers. “Read a little bit out of each of them last night. They ain’t too bad—but they ain’t too good, either.”
“Thank you,” Rix said dryly.
“So.” Dunstan turned the wheelchair around and regarded him thoughtfully through a haze of pipe smoke. “You want to help us with the book, and you figure I’ll go for the idea since you’re a published writer.”
“Something like that.”
“This is a project I’ve been workin on for a long time. I suppose you could say”—his mouth curved to one side—“that it’s a labor of love. Raven and I are a good team. I’m not so sure we need another member.”
“Maybe you don’t,” Rix agreed, “but I’ve shown you how serious I am about this. I’m taking a hell of a risk by coming here. I had to sneak out after lunch like a thief. I can get you whatever you need from the Gatehouse library. I can help you with the writing. And most important, an Usher name on the cover will give it credibility. Have you thought about that?”
Dunstan didn’t reply, but Rix saw his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. He had scored a point, Rix thought. “I brought you the casebook. And I’ve told you what you wanted to know, haven’t I?”
The other man grunted. “I’ve known about the Baird Retreat for months. I digested that material and returned the book to Mr. Bodane. Sorry, I’m still not sold. I can’t figure out exactly why you want to help so badly.” His teeth were clamped around the pipe’s stem like a bulldog’s. “If you think you’re gonna waltz in here and get your hands on the manuscript—maybe screw it up, for all I know—you’re wrong, my friend.”
This was like trying to find a chink in a granite wall. “Edwin trusts me,” Rix said, nettled. “Why won’t you?”
“Because I’m not the trustin’ type.”
“Okay, fine. Then what can I do to make you trust me?”
Dunstan pondered the question. He rolled the chair over to the bay window and watched gray-bellied clouds scudding across the sky, then looked at Rix. “Mr. Bodane entered this deal with the stipulation that he supply documents only—no verbal information. In his own way, I guess he’s still bein’ loyal to Walen. I admire that. He wouldn’t tell me what Walen’s condition was, and that’s why I had to find out from you. I’ve got some questions that need answers: things that connect events of Usher history. And only an Usher can give me the answers.”
“Try me.”
Dunstan motioned toward a chair, and Rix sat down. “Okay. I want to know about the cane. The black cane with the silver lion’s-head. Why’s it so important to your family? Where’d it come from, and why does every patriarch carry it like some kind of royal scepter?”
“As far as I know, Hudson Usher brought it with him from Wales. Old Malcolm probably carried it, too. I think whoever possesses it is recognized by the family as the head of the estate and the business. There’s no secret about that.”
“Maybe not,” Dunstan said, “but maybe it’s more than that, too.” He let smoke leak from the corner of his mouth. “The cane wasn’t always in your family. It was stolen once, from Aram Usher—your great-great-grandfather—and was lost for almost twenty years. In those twenty years, your family had more than its share of bad luck: Aram was killed in a duel, his son Ludlow was almost killed several times, Ludlow’s half-sister, Shann, had a career tragedy, Usherland was overrun by Union troops, and your family’s steamboat, railroad, and textile businesses went bust.”
This rush of information was startling to Rix. “Are you suggesting there’s a connection between all tha
t and the cane?”
“Nope. Just speculatin’. That was probably the most disastrous period of Usher history. The only thing that didn’t suffer too much was the armaments business. That rolled in a fortune during the Civil War—especially since Usher Armaments sold rifles, bullets, and artillery pieces to both sides. Old Aram was smart. His heart might’ve belonged to the South, but he knew the North was gonna clean house.”
“Who stole the cane?” Rix asked, intrigued by these new facts of Usher history. “A servant?”
“No. An octoroon gambler from New Orleans named Randolph Tigré. Or at least that was one of his names. I say ‘stole’ only figuratively. Aram’s second wife, Cynthia Cordweiler Usher, gave it to him.”
“Why?”
“He was blackmailin’ her. She was the widow of Alexander Hamilton Cordweiler, who owned steamboat lines, a network of railroads, and a big chunk of the Chicago stockyards. Cordweiler was sixty-four when he married her; she was eighteen.”
“Blackmailing her? What for?”
Dunstan’s pipe had gone out, and he took a few seconds to relight it. “Because,” he said, “Cynthia Cordweiler Usher—your great-great-grandmother—was a murderess.” He smiled faintly at Rix’s grim expression. “I can tell you the story, if you want to hear it. I’ve put together bits and pieces from various sources, and I’ve had to guess at some of it—from what happened later.” He raised his bushy eyebrows. “Well? Got the nerve to hear it, or not?”
“Go ahead,” Rix replied.
“Good. It starts in the summer of 1858. Ludlow was about four weeks old. Aram was in Washington on business. If he’d been home, things might’ve taken a different turn. Anyway, a gentleman caller came to the Lodge. He waited downstairs while a servant took his calling card up to Cynthia’s bedroom…”
The smoke swirled around Wheeler Dunstan’s head as he spoke. Rix listened intently, and imagined that in the blue whorls of smoke were faces—the ghosts of the past, gathering around them in the room. The smoke formed pictures; the Lodge on a sunny summer’s day, light streaming through the windows and across the hardwood floors. A lovely, strong-featured woman in bed, with an infant suckling at her breast. And a card in her trembling hand that gave the name of Randolph Tigré.
“Send him away,” Cynthia Usher told her maid, a strapping young black woman named Righteous Jordan. “I’m occupied with my son.”
“I told him you wasn’t gonna see him, ma’am,” she said; Righteous stood almost six feet tall and had a stomach as wide as a barrel. “Told him right to his face, but he say it don’t matter, that I was to give you his card.”
“You have. Now go back downstairs and tell him to—”
“Good morning, Mrs. Usher.” It was a soft, silken voice that raised goosebumps on Cynthia’s arms. Righteous whirled around indignantly. Randolph Tigré, wearing a natty tan suit and carrying a thin riding crop, was leaning casually in the doorway. His teeth gleamed in his handsome, coffee-and-cream-colored face.
“Lord God!” Righteous tried to block the man’s view. “Don’t you have no decency?”
“I don’t like waiting, so I followed you up here. Mrs. Usher and I are old…acquaintances. You can leave us now.”
Righteous’s cheeks swelled at such impertinence. It was bad enough that this man had talked his way through the front gate—but for him to be standing there while Mrs. Usher was feeding her little baby was downright scandalous. He was smiling like a cat, and Righteous’s first impulse was to pick him up and heave him down the stairs. What stopped her from doing so was the fact that he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen; the large topaz stickpin in the center of his black cravat was the exact color of his keen, deepset eyes, and he had a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. The creamy hue of his flesh made Righteous appear, by contrast, to have recently bathed in India ink. He wore tan calfskin gloves, and English riding boots polished to a high, warm luster. To be a free man of color was one thing, Righteous thought, but for him to flaunt himself openly in these troubled times was begging for a beating. “Get yourself out of here while Mrs. Usher arranges herself!” Righteous snapped protectively.
Cynthia had laid the infant down on a silk-brocaded pillow, and now she calmly buttoned her gown to the throat.
“I’m not the coalstove stoker, Missy,” Tigré said. His eyes had flashed like warning beacons, and there was a shade of menace in his voice. “Don’t use that tone with me. Tell her, Mrs. Usher. We’re old friends, aren’t we?”
“It’s all right,” Cynthia said. Righteous looked at her incredulously. “Mr. Tigré and I…know each other. You can leave us alone now.”
“Ma’am? Leave you alone up here? In your bedchamber?”
“Yes. But I want you to return in a quarter of an hour…to escort Mr. Tigré out of the Lodge. Run on, now.”
The black woman snorted and stormed out. Randolph Tigré stepped aside as she passed, and gave a hint of a bow. Then he closed the door and turned toward Cynthia Usher with a cool, insolent smile. “Hello, Cindy,” he said softly. “You look breathtaking.”
“What the hell are you doing here? Are you insane?”
“Now, now, that’s not proper language for a lady of leisure, is it?” He strolled around the sumptuous bedroom, his hands exploring the textures of blue velvet, carved mahogany, and Belgian lace. He lifted a jade vase from her dressing table and examined the intricate workmanship. “Exquisite,” he murmured. “You’re a woman of your word, Cindy. You always vowed you’d own exquisite things someday—and now look at you, mistress of Usherland.”
“My husband will be returning shortly. I advise you to—”
Tigré laughed quietly. “No, Cindy. Mr. Aram Usher left for Washington by train yesterday morning. I followed his coach to the station. He’s a nice-looking man. But then…your head was always turned by a wide pair of shoulders and a tight pair of trousers, wasn’t it?” He plucked a hand-painted Japanese fan from its ceramic stand and stretched it open, admiring the colors. “You’ve struck it rich again, haven’t you? First Alexander Cordweiler—and now Aram Usher.” Tigré nodded toward the gurgling infant. “His, I assume?”
“You must be out of your mind to set foot on this estate!”
“In fact, I’ve never been more sane. Don’t I look fine?” He showed her his matching topaz cufflinks, and produced a gold pocket watch studded with diamonds. “I was always lucky at cards. The gaming boats that run from New Orleans to St. Louis are packed with sheep who bleat to be sheared. I’m happy to oblige them. Of course…sometimes my luck needs a helping hand.” He opened his waistcoat and patted the small pistol he carried in a leather holster. “Your husband produces fine guns.”
“Either state your business, or get out of my house.” Her voice shook and she was speared with shame.
Tigré walked over to the far side of the room, peering out the windows upon the lake. “I have a present for you,” he said. He turned and flipped something—a silver coin, sparkling in the sunlight that spilled through the window—onto the bed. It landed at her side. Cynthia reached for it—but her hand froze in midair. Her fingers slowly curled into a fist.
“It’s a reminder of the good old days, Cindy. I thought seeing it would please you.”
She had recognized the object. How he’d gotten one of them, she didn’t know, but her business-honed mind rapidly grasped the situation: the little silver coin could destroy her life.
Tigré’ came to the foot of the bed. She caught the odors of his pungent cologne and minty brilliantine—old, familiar aromas that, to her horror, made her heart beat faster. She pulled her knees protectively to her chest under the sheet.
“You’ve missed me, haven’t you?” he asked. “Yes. I can tell. I could always read your eyes. That’s why we were such a good team. You would entertain the customers with your stories and laughter—and then the judgment of God would fall on their heads. I never missed once with that hammer, did I? But they died happy, Cindy; you needn’t fear the fires of hell
.”
The baby began crying. Cynthia held Ludlow close. “That was a long time ago. I’m not the same woman.”
“Of course not. How many millions did you inherit from Cordweiler? Ten? Twenty? Your riverboats are comfortable, I’ll say that. I play my best games of poker on the Bayou Moon.” Slowly his smile began to fade. A thin sneer replaced it, and Tigré played his fingers over the leather riding crop. “You never answered my letters. I began to have the feeling you didn’t want to see me again. After all, I introduced you to Cordweiler…or have you forgotten? Tell me something—how did you do it? Rat poison in his cake? Arsenic in his coffee?”
She stared icily at him. Ludlow strained at her bosom.
“No matter,” he said, with a curt wave of his hand. “However it was done, you covered your tracks well. Which, brings me to another question: When are you going to murder Aram Usher?”
“Get out,” she whispered. “Get out of here before I call for the police!”
“Will you? I don’t think so. We’re the same, deep inside. But hammers aren’t your style—yours is the slick word and the wet kiss. I’m tired of waiting for my just due, Cindy.” He nodded impatiently toward the infant. “He’s hungry. Why don’t you take out your tit and feed him?”
She didn’t respond. Tigré leaned against the bed’s scrolled walnut cornerpost. “I’ve come to be fed, too. At the first of every month, you’re to deliver ten thousand dollars in an envelope to the Andrew Jackson Suite of the Crockett Hotel in Asheville.”
“You’re insane! I don’t have that kind of cash!”
“No?” Tigré reached into his pocket. With a flip of his hand he filled the air with shining silver coins. Cynthia flinched as they fell around her, striking her on the face, hitting the bed and the infant’s crib, clattering on the floor. “I have a boxful of those. Ten thousand dollars, every month. I’ll even show you how reasonable I can be; this month I’ll only expect five thousand dollars. And that handsome cane your husband carries with him.”
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