Lasher

  The others stared at him in clear and unembarrassed anticipation.

  "I didn't think he was six and a half feet tall," said Michael, trying again to steady his voice. He ran his hand back through his hair, and stopped himself in the act of reaching for a pen he didn't need. He closed his right hand into a fist, then opened it, splaying the fingers. "But then I was having a pitched battle with him when he was here. I'd say he was my height, six foot two at most. His hair was short. It was black, like mine. He had blue eyes."

  "Are you telling me," Ryan asked with deceptive calm, "that you saw the man who went off with Rowan!"

  "You said you actually did speak to him?" Pierce asked.

  Ryan was clearly pale with anger. "You can describe or identify this person?" he asked.

  "Let's get on with what we have to do," said Aaron. "We almost lost Michael on Christmas Day. Michael was unable to tell us anything for weeks. Michael was..."

  "It's OK, Aaron," said Michael. "It's OK. Ryan, what do you want to know? She left with a man. He was six feet two, he was thin, he was wearing my clothes. He had black hair. I don't think he looks the same now. His hair wasn't long. He wasn't so tall. Do you believe me? Do you believe anything anybody's told you? Ryan, I know who he is. So does the Talamasca."

  Ryan seemed incapable of responding. Pierce was also obviously stunned.

  "Uncle Ryan, it was 'the man,' " said Mona flatly. "For Chrissakes, get off Michael's case. He didn't let 'the man' through. It was Rowan."

  "Stay out of this, Mona!" Ryan flashed. It seemed he would lose control completely. Pierce laid his hand on his father's hand. "What are you doing in here!" Ryan demanded. "Go on, out."

  Mona didn't move.

  Pierce gestured for her to be quiet.

  "This thing," said Michael, "our 'man,' our Lasher. Does he appear normal to other people?"

  "An unusual man," said Ryan. "That is the testimony we have. An unusual man, well-mannered, rather gregarious." He paused as if he had to force himself to go on. "I have all the statements for you. And by the way, we combed Paris, Geneva, Zurich, New York. Tall as he is, he does not attract that much attention. The archaeologists at Donnelaith had the most contact. They said he was fascinating, a little peculiar, that he spoke very fast. That he had strange notions about the town and the ruins."

  "OK, I see what's happened. She didn't run away with him; he took her. He forced her to take him there. He forced her to get the money. She persuaded him to have these medical tests, then she got the stuff out when she could to this Dr. Larkin."

  "Not certain," said Ryan. "Not certain at all. But the forgery gives us something legal to go on. Also the money deposited for Rowan in banks abroad has now disappeared. We have to act. We have no choice. We have to protect the legacy."

  Aaron interrupted with a little gesture. "Dr. Larkin said that Rowan said she knew the creature wasn't human. She wanted him to study the genetic blueprint. She wanted to know specifically whether or not the creature could breed with humans, and with her in particular. She sent some of her own blood for analysis."

  There was an uneasy silence.

  For the space of a second, Ryan looked almost panic-stricken. Then he drew himself up, crossed his legs, and laid his left hand on the edge of Michael's desk.

  "I, don't know what I believe about this strange man," Ryan said. "I honestly don't. All this Talamasca history, this chain of thirteen witches, all this. I don't believe it. That's the frank truth. I don't. And I don't think most of the family believes in all this either." He looked directly at Michael. "But this is clear. There is no place for you to go now to search for Rowan. Going to Geneva is a waste of time. We have covered Geneva. The Talamasca has covered Geneva. In Donnelaith we have a private detective on twenty-four-hour duty. So does the Talamasca, who are, by the way, very good at this sort of thing. New York? We've turned up no real leads, other than the forged checks. They weren't large. They aroused no suspicion."

  "I see," Michael said. "Where would I go? What would I do? Those are really valid questions here."

  "Absolutely," said Ryan. "We didn't want to tell you all we'd found out for obvious reasons. But you know now, and you know that the best thing is for you to stay here, to follow Dr. Rhodes's advice, and to wait. It makes sense from absolutely every standpoint."

  "There's one other thing," Pierce said.

  His father looked plainly annoyed, and then again too fatigued to protest. He raised his hand to cover his eyes, elbow resting on the edge of the desk.

  But Pierce went on.

  "You have to tell us exactly what did happen here on Christmas Day," said Pierce. "I want to know. I've been helping with this all along. Mayfair Medical has been left in my hands. I want to continue with Mayfair Medical. Lots of the others want to continue. But everybody has to talk to everybody else. What happened, Michael? Who is this man? What is he?"

  Michael knew he ought to say something, but for the moment it seemed impossible. He sat back, staring past them at the rows and rows of books, unable to see at this moment the stack heaped on the floor or the mysterious gramophone. His eyes moved almost furtively to Mona.

  Mona had slumped back in the chair and slung one knee over the arm of it. She looked too old for the white funeral dress, which she had demurely crumpled between her legs. She was watching him with that level and somewhat ironic gaze--her old self, before the news of the death of Gifford.

  "She left with the man," Mona said very quietly and distinctly. "The man came through."

  It was her teenaged flat voice, bored with the stupidity of others and making no concession to the marvelous. She went on:

  "She left with him. This long-haired guy, this is the man. This thin mutant guy, that's who he is. The ghost, the Devil, Lasher. Michael had a fight with him out by the pool, and he knocked Michael into the water. There's a smell out there that comes from him. And the smell is in the living room where he was born."

  "You're imagining things," said Ryan, so wrathfully that it was almost a whisper. "I told you to stay out of this."

  "When he and Rowan left," said Mona, "she turned the alarm on so help would come for Michael. Or he did it himself, the man. Any moron can see now from all this--that that is what happened."

  "Mona, I am telling you to leave this room now," said Ryan.

  "No," she answered.

  Michael said nothing. He had heard all these words, but he could think of no way to respond to them. He wanted to say that Rowan had tried to stop the man from throwing him in the pool. But what was the purpose? Rowan had left him drowning in the pool, or had she? Rowan was being coerced!

  Ryan made a small sound of exasperation.

  "Allow me to say," said Aaron with patience, "that Dr. Larkin has a great deal of information which we do not have. He has X rays of hands, feet, spinal cord, pelvis, as well as PET scans of the brain, and other such tests. The creature's not human. It has a confusing genetic makeup. It is a mammal. It is a primate. It is warm-blooded. It looks like us. But it isn't human."

  Pierce was staring at his father, as if afraid his father would come unglued at any moment. Ryan merely shook his head. "I'll believe this when I see it, when that Dr. Larkin tells me himself."

  "Dad," said Pierce, "if you look at the forensic reports, it's the same picture. They said, contaminated, or tampered with, or spoiled, because otherwise it's the blood and tissue of something with a nonhuman genetic makeup."

  "It's what Mona said," said Michael. His voice had dropped very low. He roused himself a little and looked at Ryan and then at Mona.

  Something in Aaron's manner was disturbing him, had been all along, but he didn't know what it was, and he hadn't known he was disturbed until he failed to look at Aaron.

  "I came home," said Michael, "and he was here. He looked like her. He looked like me. He might have come from...our child. Our baby. Rowan had been pregnant."

  He stopped. He let, out a long slow breath, shaking his head a little and then realizing he
ought to go on.

  "This man-thing was newborn," he said. "He was very strong. He taunted me. He...he was moving like the straw man in The Wizard of Oz...clumsily, falling down, laughing, climbing back up. I should have been able to wring his neck. I wasn't. He was much much stronger than he looked. I connected more than once. Should have pulverized a few facial bones. No damage except a cut. Rowan did try to stop the fight, but it wasn't clear to me then...and it isn't now...whom Rowan was trying to protect. Me? Or him."

  He hated hearing these words from his own mouth. But it was time to get it all out, for everything to be shared, the pain and the defeat included.

  "Did she help him knock you in the pool?" Mona asked.

  "Mona, shut up," said Ryan. Mona ignored him utterly. She was looking at Michael.

  "No, she didn't," said Michael. "And he shouldn't have been able to do it alone. I've been decked once or twice in my life. It took big men and lucky punches to do it. He was thin, delicate, he was sliding on the ice out there; but he shoved me and into the pool I went. I remember him looking at me as I went down. He has blue eyes. He has very black hair. I told you that already. His skin is very pale, and kind of beautiful. At least it was then."

  "Like the skin of an infant," said Aaron softly.

  "And all of you are trying to tell me," said Ryan nervously, anxiously, "that this is not a human being?"

  "We're talking science, man," said Aaron, "not voodoo. This is a creature, so to speak, of flesh and blood. But its genetic blueprint is not human."

  "Larkin told you that."

  "Well, more or less," said Aaron. "Let's say I picked up the message from him."

  "Ghosts, spirits and creatures," Ryan said. It was as though the wax he was made of was beginning to melt altogether.

  "Come on, Dad, take it easy," said Pierce, and for the moment sounded like the elder.

  "Gifford told me that she thought the man had come through," Ryan said. "It was the last conversation I ever had with my wife and she said..." He stopped.

  Silence.

  "I think we are resolved on one point, Michael," said Aaron, with a touch of impatience. "That you remain here."

  "Yeah, I got that," said Michael. "I'm staying. But I want to see all the reports. I want to become involved on every level. I want to talk to this Dr. Larkin."

  "There is one other very important matter," said Aaron. "Ryan, for obvious reasons, did not consent to an autopsy being performed on Gifford."

  Ryan glared at him. Michael had never seen Ryan so full of blatant hostility. Aaron caught it as well, and he hesitated, very obviously at a loss for a moment, before he continued:

  "But there is bloodstained clothing which can be tested."

  "For what?" demanded Ryan. "What has my wife to do with you? With any of this?"

  Aaron couldn't answer. He looked distraught suddenly. He fell quiet.

  "Are you trying to tell me my wife had some doings with this thing? That he killed her?" Aaron didn't answer.

  "Dad, she had a miscarriage up there," said Pierce, "and you and I both know--" The young man stopped himself but the blow was struck. "My mother was high-strung," he said. "She and my father..."

  Ryan didn't reply. His rage had hardened into something worse. Michael shook his head before he could stop himself. Mona's face was impassive as ever.

  "There was evidence of a miscarriage?" Aaron asked.

  "Well, she suffered a uterine hemorrhage," said Pierce. "That's what the local doctor said, some kind of miscarriage."

  "He doesn't know," said Ryan. "The local doctors said she died from loss of blood. That's all they knew. Loss of blood. She started to hemorrhage and she didn't or couldn't call for help. She died on the sand. My wife was an affectionate and normal woman. But she was forty-six years old. It is highly unlikely she had a miscarriage. Indeed, it is almost a preposterous idea. She suffered from fibroid tumors."

  "Dad, let them test what they have, please. I want to know why Mother died. If it was the tumors, I want to know. Please. All of us want to know. Why did she have the hemorrhage?"

  "All right," said Ryan, in a seething rage. "You want these tests run on your mother's clothes?" He threw up his hands.

  "Yes," said Pierce calmly.

  "All right. For you then this will be done, for you and your sisters. We'll run the tests. We'll find out what triggered the hemorrhage."

  Pierce was satisfied, but clearly worried about his father.

  Ryan had more to say. But he gestured for them to wait. He held his right hand in the air, and gestured again, tentatively, and then he began to speak.

  "I will do what I can do under these circumstances. I will continue the search for Rowan. I will have the bloodstained clothes tested. I will do the sane and proper thing. I will do the honorable thing. The legal thing. The necessary thing. But I do not believe in this man! I do not believe in this ghost. I never have! And I have no reason to believe in it now. And whatever the truth of it ail, it has nothing to do with the death of my wife!

  "But let us take up the matter of Rowan again. Gifford is in God's hands. Rowan may still be in ours. Now, Aaron, how can we get this scientific data, or whatever it is, from the Keplinger Institute? That will be my first order of business. To find out how we can subpoena the material Rowan sent to Larkin. I'm going to the office now. I'm going to lay hands on that material. The designee of the legacy has disappeared, there may have been foul play, legal actions have already been taken regarding funds, accounts, signatures et al.--" He stopped as though he had gone as far as he could, staring forward, like a machine that had run out of electricity.

  "I understand your feelings, Ryan," said Aaron softly. "Even the most conservative witness can say that there is a mystery here revolving around this male creature."

  "You and the Talamasca," Ryan whispered. "You infer. You observe, you witness. You look at all these puzzling things and you throw out an interpretation which fits with your beliefs, your superstitions, your dogmatic insistence that the world of ghosts and spirits is real. I don't buy it. I think your history of our family is some sort of...some sort of dazzling hoax, if you want the truth. I don't...I'm having an investigation of my own done, of you, if you want to know."

  Aaron's eyes narrowed. There was a touch of bitterness, sourness, in his voice when he spoke.

  "I don't blame you," he said.

  There was something very cross and bitter in his face suddenly. Repression of temper. Repression of confusion or ambivalence. Michael sensed it more strongly now than before. Aaron wasn't himself, as they say.

  "Do you have the clothing, Ryan?" Aaron asked, pushing on with this unpleasant request, as if he resented very deeply having to do it. He was taking out that resentment on Ryan. "Gifford's clothes. What she was wearing when she died?"

  "Goddamnit," Ryan whispered. He picked up the phone. He reached his secretary downtown within seconds. "Carla," he said, "Ryan here. Call the coroner in Walton County, Florida. Call the funeral parlor. What happened to Gifford's clothes? I have to have them."

  He put down the phone. "Is there anything else?" he asked. "I'd like to go to the office. I have work to do. I have to go home early. My children need me. Alicia has been hospitalized. She needs me. I need to be alone for a while. I need to...I need to grieve for my wife. Pierce, I'd like it if we left now. If you came with me." All this was too hurried.

  "Yes, Dad, but I want to know about Mother's clothes."

  "What in God's name has this to do with Gifford!" Ryan demanded. "God, have you all lost your minds."

  "Just want to know," said Pierce. "You know...you know Mom was scared to come here on Mardi Gras, she was..."

  "No, don't go on. Don't do it," said Ryan. "Let's stick to what we have here. What we know. We'll do whatever anybody wants us to do for any reason! And Michael, tomorrow I'll make available to you everything we have on Rowan. Hell, I'll make it available now. I'll send you the records of the entire investigation."

  Once again, h
e picked up the phone and punched in the office numbers at the speed of light. He did not bother to say his name. He told the person on the other end, "Messenger over a copy of all the papers pertaining to Rowan. Yes, all that. The detectives, the Xeroxes of the checks, every scrap of paper we have on her. Her husband wants it. He has a right to see it. He's her husband. He has...a right."

  Silence. He was listening.

  "What do you mean?" he asked.

  His face went blank and then it began to color, to redden, and as he hung up the phone, he turned his gaze on Aaron. "Your investigators picked up my wife's clothes? They took them from the Walton County coroner's office and from the funeral parlor? Who told you you could do such a thing?"

  Aaron didn't answer. But Michael could read the surprise and the confusion in his face. Aaron hadn't known. He was shocked as well as humiliated. He seemed to be thinking it all over, and then he gave a little careful shrug.

  "I'm sorry," Aaron said at last. "I did not authorize anyone to do this. I apologize to you. I'll see that everything is returned, immediately."

  Now Michael understood why Aaron was not himself. Something was happening within the ranks, something between Aaron and the Order. He had sensed it earlier but he hadn't known how to interpret it.

  "You damn well better!" said Ryan. "I've had enough of scholars and secrets and people spying on one another." He stood up. Pierce stood also.

  "Come on, Dad," Pierce said, once again taking charge. "Let's go home. I'll go back to the office this afternoon. Let's go."

  Aaron did not rise to his feet. He did not look up at Ryan. He was gazing off, and then he seemed to drift away from them, into his own thoughts. He was disgruntled, but it was worse than that.

  Michael rose and took Ryan's hand. He shook hands also, as he always did, with Pierce. "Thank you both."

  "It's the least you could expect," said Ryan disgustedly. "We'll meet tomorrow, you and I, and Lauren and Randall. We'll find Rowan if Rowan..."

  "...can be found," said Mona.

  "I told you to shut up," said Ryan. "I want you to go home," Ryan said. "Ancient Evelyn is there alone."

  "Oh, yeah, somebody's always there alone and they need me, don't they?" Mona said. She brought her leg round and stood up, straightening the girlish cotton dress. The two loops of her white ribbon poked up behind her head. "I'll go on home. Don't worry."