“’Scuse us, please,” General McVair said, with a deep-fried Southern accent that sounded, to Rix’s ear, highly exaggerated. “Miz Usher, I wanted you to know we were on our way. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“You’re ever so welcome, General. I know Walen appreciates your visits.”
“Well, I’m sorry to intrude at a time like this, but I’m afraid business is business.” His eyes moved from her to Rix.
“Oh, pardon me. I don’t think you’ve met our youngest son. Rix, this is General McVair—I’m sorry, but I don’t know your Christian name.” She fluttered her hands helplessly.
“Call me Bert. All my friends do.” He shook Rix’s hand with a grip that threatened to grind Rix’s knuckles together. Rix squeezed back just as hard, and a look passed between them like two wary animals sizing each other up. “I expect you know Mr. Meredith?”
“We’ve never met.” Meredith’s voice was soft and reserved, and his mouth twisted like a gray worm when he spoke. He didn’t offer his hand.
McVair seemed to examine Rix’s face right down to the pores on his skin. “You favor your father,” he decided. “Got the same nose and hair. Your dad and I go back a long way. Saved my skin during Korea, when he sold us about ten thousand incendiary devices that were jim-dandies. Of course, anything your dad’s business cooks up is worth its weight in gold.” He smiled broadly, showing large, even teeth. “Make that platinum, times bein’ what they are.”
Rix nodded toward the briefcase Meredith held. “Working on something new?”
“The company is, yes,” Meredith replied.
“Mind if I ask what it is?”
“I’m sorry. It’s classified.”
Walen’s final project? Rix wondered. Pendulum? He smiled at the general. “Can’t even give me a hint?”
“Not without you signin’ a lot of papers and goin’ through a big long security check, young fella.” McVair returned the smile. “Some folks we’d rather not mention sure would like to get a look at it.”
Meredith glanced at his wristwatch. “General, we’ve got to be getting back to the plant now, Mrs. Usher, it was good seeing you again. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Usher.”
Rix let them get to the door, then he tried a shot in the dark. “What’s Pendulum going to do for you, General?”
Both men stopped as if they’d run into a glass wall. McVair turned, still smiling, though his eyes were cold and wary. Meredith’s face was impassive. “What say, son?” McVair asked.
“Pendulum,” Rix replied. “That’s the name of my father’s last project, isn’t it? I’m curious to know exactly what it is, and how the Pentagon’s going to use it.” He suddenly realized that he’d seen a face very similar to McVair’s before: the overfed, florid face of the cop who’d called him a “fuckin’ hippie” before the baton had cracked down against Rix’s skull. They were the same breed of animal. “Pendulum,” he repeated, as McVair stared at him. “Now that’s a name to conjure with, isn’t it?” He smiled tightly, his cheek muscles aching. He had a dizzying sensation of being out of control, but he didn’t give a damn. These two men represented everything he detested about being an Usher. “Let’s see now, what can it be? A nuclear missile that homes in on an infant’s heartbeat? Time-release capsules of plague virus?”
“Rix!” Margaret hissed, her face contorted.
“Nerve gas, that’s it!” Rix said. “Or something that melts a person’s bones like jelly. Am I getting warm, General?”
McVair’s smile hung by a lip. Meredith urged softly, “I believe we should go now.”
“Oh, not yet!” Rix said, determined to push it to the limit. He took two steps forward. “We’re just beginning to understand each other, aren’t we?”
Meredith grasped the general’s arm, but the other man quickly shrugged him off. “I’ve heard a lot about you, boy,” McVair said calmly. “You’re the one who got his noggin busted at that so-called peace rally and had your face spread all over the newspapers. Well, let me tell you something. Your dad is a patriot, and if it wasn’t for men like him, we’d be down on our knees beggin’ the Russians not to lop off our heads! It takes more brains to build military deterrents than it does to go marchin’ in hippie parades! You may have cut your hair, but it must’ve grown clear through your brain!” He glanced at Margaret. “I regret this outburst, ma’am. Good afternoon to you.” He touched the brim of his cap and quickly followed Meredith out of the room.
Rix started to go after them, ready to continue the argument. Margaret said, “Don’t you dare!” and he stopped at the door.
She came toward him like a thundercloud. “I hope you’re proud!” she rasped, her eyes wide. “Oh, I hope you’re feeling like the king of the world! Have you lost your mind?”
“I was expressing my opinion.”
“God save us from your opinions, then! I thought I taught you good manners!”
Rix couldn’t hold back a short, sharp laugh. “Manners?” he said incredulously. “Jesus Christ! Where’s your soul? Is it covered over with white silk and diamond necklaces? That bastard was walking out of here with another killing machine that my father dreamed up!”
Margaret said stiffly, “I think you’d better go to your room, young man.”
A strangled scream caught in his throat. Couldn’t she understand? Couldn’t anyone understand but him? No amount of fine clothes or furniture or food or expensive cars could alter the simple, terrible fact that the Ushers fed on death! “Better still,” he said, “I’ll get the hell out of here!” He whirled away from her and stalked out of the room with her shouts flung at his back.
Halfway up the stairs, he knew he’d let himself go too far. Pain rippled up the back of his neck and hammered at his temples. Colors and sounds began to sharpen. He staggered, had to stop to grip the banister. It was going to be a bad one, he knew—and where could he hide? His heartbeat was beginning to deafen him. Jagged images rumbled through his mind: his emaciated father, dying in the Quiet Room; the Lodge’s open door, leading into darkness; a shining silver circle with the face of a roaring lion; a skeleton with bloody eyeholes, swinging slowly in a doorway; Boone’s distorted face saying “Peed your pants, didn’t ya?”; Sandra’s hair floating in the bloody water…
His bones ached as if they were being pulled from the sockets. He stumbled up the stairs, heading toward Katt’s Quiet Room. The skin on his palms sizzled on the banister.
In Katt’s bedroom, Rix pulled open the closet door. The closet was large, with clothes hung from metal racks and a hundred pairs of shoes on wall shelves. He pushed the clothes away from the rear wall, as the pain increased and his eyes were almost blinded by the frenzy of colors. He felt wildly along the wall, sweat oozing down his face.
His fingers closed around a small knob, and he turned it frantically, praying that it wouldn’t be locked.
It came open. Rix squeezed himself into a space as small as a coffin. The walls and floor were covered with thick foam rubber. When Rix pushed the door shut, all sounds—water thundering through pipes, the hiss and moan of the wind outside, the artillery-boom of a ticking clock—were dramatically softened. Still, the noise of his own heartbeat and breathing was inescapable. He moaned, clamped his hands over his ears, and curled into a tight ball on the floor.
The attack was worsening. Under his clothes, his flesh stung and sweated.
And, to Rix’s horror, a sliver of light was entering beneath the door. Normal vision would have been unable to see it, but to Rix it pulsated like a white-hot ray of neon. The light’s heat scorched his face; it became the blade of a sword that lengthened across the floor, quickly becoming sharper and brighter.
Rix turned his face away—and into the fierce red glare of what felt like a heat lamp. The light was reflecting off an object on a shelf just above his head. He put his hand up there—felt earplugs, a velvet mask with an elastic band, and a small metal box. Light was hitting the corner of the box, exploding like a nova. Rix slipped the mask over
his eyes and waited, trembling, for the attack to fade or strengthen.
Over the booming of his heartbeat came a nightmarish, garbled sound that at first he didn’t recognize. It steadily grew louder, and at last he knew what it was, and from where it came.
The Quiet Room.
It was his father’s mirthless laughter.
Rix’s spine bowed under the full weight of the attack, and when he cried out, his head almost blew apart.
30
—NEW—
The voice was as smooth as black velvet. It reached him in his sleep, probing delicately into his mind.
—come home—
He turned restlessly on his cot, entwined in the thin blanket.
—come home—
The Lodge oozed light that shimmered in gilded streaks on the lake’s surface. The night was warm, scented with roses from the gardens. New was standing on the lakeshore, at the entrance to the bridge, and he watched the figures moving back and forth past the glowing windows. On the night breeze came a whisper of music—a full orchestra, playing, of all things, the kind of jumpy hoedown tune his pa had liked to listen to on the Asheville radio station.
—come home—
New cocked his head to one side. The music faded in and out. The Lodge was calling him. The beautiful, magical, fantastic Lodge wanted him, needed him. He blinked, trying to remember what his ma said about Usher’s Lodge. Something bad, but now he couldn’t remember exactly what it was, and the thought drifted off like the notes of music and the lights on the water.
Hooves clattered on stone. A coach led by four white horses was coming across the bridge. Its driver wore a long black coat and a top hat, and he flicked a whip over the horses to keep their pace crisp. When the coach drew closer to New, the driver smiled.
“Good evening,” the man said. He wore white gloves, and there was a feather in the band of his hat. “You’re expected, Master Newlan.”
“I’m…expected…?” He was asleep, he knew, in the cabin on Briartop Mountain. But everything looked so real; he touched the bridge’s stone and felt its roughness beneath his fingers. The coachman was watching him like an old friend. New realized he was still wearing what he’d gone to bed in: his long woolen underwear and one of his pa’s flannel shirts.
The coachman said patiently, “The landlord expects you, Master Newlan. He wants to welcome you home personally.”
New shook his head. “I…don’t understand.”
“Climb in,” the coachman said. “We’re celebrating your homecoming—at long last.”
“But…the Lodge isn’t my home. I…live on Briartop Mountain. In a cabin, with my ma. I’m the man of the house.”
“We know all that. It isn’t important.” He motioned with the handle of his whip toward the Lodge. “That can be your new home, if you like. You don’t have to live on the mountain anymore. The landlord wants you to be comfortable, and to have everything you desire.”
“The…landlord? Who’s that?”
“The landlord,” he repeated. His smile never faltered. “Oh, you know who the landlord is, Master Newlan. Come on now, he’s waiting. Won’t you join us?” The coach’s door clicked open. Within were red satin seats and padding.
New approached the coach and ran his fingers over the ebony-painted wood. A sheen of dew came off. I’m asleep! he thought. This is only a dream! He looked back at the dark mass of Briartop, then at the glowing Lodge.
“Would you like to drive?” the coachman asked. “Come on, then. I’ll help you up. The horses are easily handled.”
He hesitated. Something evil lived alone in the Lodge, his ma had said. Something all alone, waiting in the dark. He remembered the Mountain King, and the old man’s warning to stay away from the Lodge. But the Lodge wasn’t dark now, and this was a dream. He was asleep in his bed, and safe. The coachman stretched out his hand. “Let me help you up.”
What was inside that massive house? New wondered. Wouldn’t it be all right to enter it in his dream? Just to see what it looked like inside?
The orchestral music swelled and faded. “That’s right,” the coachman said, though New didn’t remember speaking.
New slowly reached up and grasped the man’s hand. The coachman smoothly pulled him up, slid over, and gave him the reins. “The landlord’s going to be pleased, Master Newlan. You’ll see.”
“Giddap,” New said, and flicked the reins. The horses trotted forward and maneuvered to turn the coach around. They started over the bridge, their hooves clopping on the stones. The coachman put a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Before New, the bridge began to telescope outward, to lengthen so that the Lodge receded in the distance. They had a long way to travel, maybe a couple of miles or more, before they would reach the front door. But that was all right, New decided. This was a dream, and he was safe on Briartop Mountain. The coachman’s hand was reassuring on his shoulder. The Lodge isn’t evil, New thought. It’s a beautiful palace, full of light and life. His mother had probably lied to him about the Lodge, and that crazy old man on top of the mountain didn’t have a lick of sense in his head. How could the Lodge be evil? he asked himself. It’s a beautiful, magical place, and if I want to, I can live there—
“Forever,” the coachman said, and smiled.
The horses’ hooves made a rhythmic, soothing cadence on the stones. The long, long bridge continued to telescope, and at the end of it was the brilliantly lighted Lodge, waiting for him, needing him.
“Faster,” the coachman urged.
The horses picked up speed. New grinned, the wind whistling past his ears.
And as if from a great distance, he heard someone shout, No!
New blinked. A freezing chill had suddenly passed over him.
The coachman’s whip snapped. “Faster,” he said. “Faster!”
New was listening. Something was wrong; he was trembling, and something was wrong. The horses were going too fast, the coachman’s hand was gripped hard into the meat of his shoulder, and then a voice ripped through his mind with a power so intense it seemed to strike him square in the forehead—
NO!
New was jolted hard, his head snapping backward. The horses reared, straining against their traces—and then they distorted, changed, whirled away like smoke. Beside him, the coachman fragmented into pieces like dark wasps that snapped around his head before they, too, vanished into threads of mist. The coach itself altered shape—and in the next instant New was sitting inside the pickup truck, with his hands on the wheel. The engine was running, and the lights were on. New, wearing only what he’d gone to bed in, was totally disoriented; when he looked over his shoulder he saw that he’d driven the truck about fifty yards from the house.
The Mountain King, his single eye like a blazing emerald, hobbled into the range of the lights. He thrust his cane forward like a sword, and though the old man’s mouth didn’t move, New could hear the voice in his mind: No! You won’t go! I won’t let you go down there!
The engine was racing. New realized his foot was still pressed to the accelerator, yet the truck wasn’t moving. He took his foot off; the truck shivered violently, and the engine rattled dead.
“New?” It was his mother, calling from the house. Then, her voice panic-stricken: “New, come back!” She began running toward the truck, fighting against a blast of cold wind.
The Mountain King stood firm, his coat billowing. The veins were standing out in his thin neck, and his eye was fixed on New with fierce determination.
Oh, Lord, New thought, I would’ve kept on driving, right down the mountain to the Lodge. It wasn’t a dream…wasn’t a dream at all…
He opened the door and started to get out of the truck.
And a black, huge shape leaped into the light, attacking the Mountain King from his blind side.
New shouted, “Look out!” But he was too late. The old man sensed movement and tried to whirl around, but the black panther was on him, clawing into his shoulders and slamming him to th
e ground. The cane spun past New and landed in the dirt. Greediguts bit into the back of the Mountain King’s neck, the monster’s eyes shining like moons in the headlights.
New leaped out of the truck. The old man was screaming as Greediguts flayed the flesh off his back. Rubies of blood sprayed up into the air. New looked for a weapon—a stick, a rock, anything!—and saw the gnarled cane lying a few feet away. He picked it up, and as his hand closed around it, an electric tingle coursed up his forearm. He ran toward the panther. It released the Mountain King and started to rise on its hind legs, the rattles on its serpentine tail chirring a warning.
New feinted. Greediguts swiped at him, missed. New leaped to one side and struck Greediguts across the triangular skull with all his strength.
There was a crack! that made his eardrums pop, and blue flame burst from the tip of the walking stick. New was knocked flat. The stench of charred hide reached him. Greediguts was spinning in a circle, snapping and clawing at empty air. Where the cane had struck, the animal’s skin was burned raw red.
The stick had scorched New’s hands. Flickers of blue flame danced up and down its length. Before New could recover and strike at the panther again, Greediguts leaped into the foliage. New heard it crashing away—and then it was gone.
As Myra reached her son, New was bending over the Mountain King. The old man’s back and shoulders were mangled, the flesh peeled away to the bone. Deep tooth marks scored the back of his neck, and were bleeding profusely. “God Almighty!” Myra cried out when she saw the wounds.
The old man moaned. Myra couldn’t believe that anything so torn up could still be alive. “Ma,” New said urgently, “we’ve got to help him! He’ll die if we don’t!”
“Nothin’ we can do. He’s finished. Listen to him, he cain’t hardly breathe!” She was looking around, terrified of the panther’s return, and backing away from the old man.
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