What was it Puddin’ had said downstairs? Rix asked himself. Something about Boone’s talent agency? Maybe all wasn’t as it seemed, he thought. And maybe it would be to his advantage to find out.
The sound of the next blow made him wince. He reached toward the doorknob, intending to interrupt the beating—but suddenly that shining silver circle with the roaring lion’s face was before him, and he couldn’t bear to touch it. Within an instant, it had faded again.
Something in the Lodge? he thought. What? A doorknob? What door, and leading where?
All shadows, hidden in the past.
He pulled his hand back and went on.
15
SITTING IN A BOOTH at the back of the Broadleaf Cafe, Raven Dunstan checked her wristwatch. It was seven minutes after three. A couple of farmers sat at the counter, drinking coffee and eating stale doughnuts. The waitress, a skinny woman in a yellow uniform, with platinum-blond hair heaped up in a tight bun, sat on a stool behind the counter, reading an old copy of People magazine. Hazy afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows that faced the street. A pickup truck rattled past. Two kids on bikes, pedaling furiously, rocketed by the windows.
She’d decided to give him five more minutes, and then she would leave. She’d been here for over an hour, had consumed a piece of blackberry pie with vanilla ice cream and three cups of the black sludge that passed as coffee. A copy of last week’s Democrat lay on the seat beside her, covered with circles of red ink where she’d marked typos, inconsistencies or headlines that she felt could’ve been better. After talking to Rix Usher, she’d called her father to find out more about him. Wheeler had said he was the middle child, about thirty-three or thirty-four years old. He was the black sheep of the family, Wheeler had told her, and had been arrested in 1970 for participating in an antiwar demonstration at the University of North Carolina. Wheeler said he understood Rix had been living in the deep South somewhere, but didn’t know how he’d been making a living.
The door opened, clanging a small cowbell over it, and Raven looked up. A burly man in a plaid jacket and brown cap came in, took his seat at the counter, and ordered a ham sandwich and fries. Definitely not Rix Usher, she told herself.
Raven had been calling Usherland every day for the past two weeks, trying to find out more about Walen Usher’s condition. Once she’d gotten a maid to admit that the man was very ill, but then someone had grabbed the phone and slammed it down. Usually she could tell when an Usher answered, because there was a moment of stony silence before the telephone crashed down. The Ushers had changed their number several times, but Raven had ferreted out the new numbers with the help of an old high school friend who worked for the phone company in Asheville. Her father had impressed upon her his belief that if a bull charged a barn door enough times, either he would knock the door off its hinges or somebody would open the door to stop the damned banging.
In this case, Raven thought, Rix Usher had opened that door.
The cowbell clanged.
A tall, lean blond man in khakis and a brown sweater had entered the Broadleaf. Raven saw he had the Usher appearance of haughty aristocracy: a displaced Welsh prince, perhaps, who dreamed of returning triumphantly to the ancestral castle. He was very pale and almost too thin, as if he’d been sick and hidden away from the sunlight. If this was Rix Usher, then her father had been wrong about his age. This man was in his late thirties or early forties. In spite of her feelings about the Usher clan, her heart was beating harder. She sat stiffly, watching him approach her table. He was a handsome man, though something about him seemed almost fragile. He looked at her through wary eyes the color of silver coins, and Raven felt herself shift uneasily.
“Miss Dunstan?” Rix asked.
“That’s right.” She motioned toward the other side of the booth, and Rix slid in.
The woman was certainly younger and more attractive than Rix had imagined. In fact, he was pleasantly surprised. There was strength in the set of her jaw, intelligence and curiosity in her light blue eyes. She wasn’t a beautiful woman in the classic sense—her mouth was too wide, her nose too sharp and slightly crooked, as if it had been broken and poorly set—but the combination of her fair complexion, black hair, and piercing blue eyes was riveting. To mask his interest, Rix picked up a menu and looked over the items. “Anything good here?” he asked.
“The pie, if you like apple, persimmon, or blackberry. I won’t recommend the coffee.”
The waitress ambled on over. Rix said he’d just take a glass of water; she shrugged and went to the counter to get it.
“I understand you’ve been disturbing my family,” Rix said.
“I suppose that’s part of my job.”
“Is it? A court of law might not see it that way. As a matter of fact, I don’t understand why my family doesn’t bring a harassment suit against you and that paper you work for.”
“I’ve wondered that myself,” she replied, her direct gaze challenging him. “But I think I know why. Your father’s very ill. He doesn’t want the least bit of publicity. Zero. Nil. He knows that if he starts something with the Democrat, other papers are going to take notice.”
The waitress brought Rix’s water, and he sipped at it thoughtfully. “You’ve got an inflated opinion of the Democrat, Miss Dunstan. It’s only one of a dozen county newspapers in the state. What makes you think it’s so important?”
“Because it is. The Democrat was being published in these hills thirty years before the first stone was laid at Usherland. My great-great-great-grandfather brought the hand press with him on his back from Dublin, and the paper started out as a bulletin for the tobacco farmers. My family has edited it, written in it, and published it for over a hundred and sixty years. Sure, there are plenty of county papers, but the Democrat is the oldest—and we’ve been monitoring you Ushers since old Hudson himself settled here.”
“Watching us, you mean.”
She smiled faintly. Rix looked at the scar that cut through her left eyebrow and wondered how she’d gotten it. “Someone has to. Your family owns controlling interest in at least seven Southern newspapers. God only knows how many television and radio stations you own. If you want to go to court, Mr. Usher, a nice case might be made out of monopoly and conflict of interest, don’t you think?”
“No one wants to go to court,” he said. “Especially not over a tabloid like the Democrat.”
“You don’t have a very high regard for the paper, do you? Well, it might interest you to know that your father offered mine over two hundred thousand dollars for the Democrat, four years ago. He refused, of course. The Democrat is distributed statewide and has a paid subscription of forty-five thousand.”
“And I’d say that most of those people read it because they’re looking for news about the Ushers—or, I should say, hints of scandal. I’ve never met your father, but I’m sure he’d agree that the Ushers have helped sell his newspaper.”
“It’s not his newspaper anymore,” Raven said. She folded her hands before her on the table. “It’s mine. I’ve owned it and published it since the first of August, when I took it over from my father.”
“Oh. I see. Then I guess Wheeler’s spending his retirement working on that book of his? The one about the Usher family?”
“He works on it every day, yes.”
Jesus Christ! Rix thought. He willed himself not to show emotion. “My family’s not too happy about it. They’d like to know where he’s getting his research materials.”
“From sources,” she said enigmatically.
“When’s he going to be finished with it?”
“Maybe next year. He wants to make sure all the facts are correct.”
“I hope they are, for both your sakes. My family won’t go to court over the Democrat, but they’ll come down on you like a brick snowstorm over this book.”
Raven’s eyes searched his face. “How much longer does Walen have to live? And who’s the estate going to pass to after he dies?”
&nb
sp; Rix swirled the ice cubes around his glass. He should get up and leave, he told himself. He should never have agreed to meet her! But then the instant of inner turmoil passed, and he was in control again. “Why are you so sure my father’s dying?”
“The presence of a cell specialist seems pretty serious. Dr. Francis won’t talk to us, either. But the real clincher is that you’ve come back to Usherland. I think the clan’s gathered to see a successor named.”
“And you want the story before the big-league papers and TV people get it, right?”
“Breaking a story like this would be a major coup for the Democrat. We’d go with a special edition and make it available statewide. It would probably triple our circulation, and give us real respectability.”
“You must have big plans for your paper’s future.”
“It’s not going away, if that’s what you mean.”
Rix nodded and smiled faintly. He waited a moment, then said, “Okay. Let’s say, for the sake of speculation, that I do know who’s going to take over the estate and business. I realize how much that would be worth to you.” He looked directly at her. “But I want something, too.”
“What?”
“A look at your father’s manuscript. And I want to know where he’s getting his research materials.”
Raven frowned. She hadn’t expected to have to trade information, like a couple of secret agents. Rix Usher was waiting for her reply. “It’s my father’s book, not mine. I can’t—”
“If you can’t help me,” he interrupted, “then I won’t help you.”
“Maybe I’m stupid for asking,” Raven said, “but why should you help me? Your family and mine haven’t exactly been on the best of terms for the last hundred years or so. Why should you suddenly want to help me out?”
“I’m curious. I want to see what your father’s written.”
“So you can report back?”
“No one knows I’m here,” Rix said firmly. “I said I was going out for a drive and took one of the cars. Whatever your father shows me, it won’t get back to Usherland.”
Raven paused uncertainly. In her estimation, the Ushers were as slippery as snake oil. But now here was the black sheep of the Usher family, offering her vital information. Why? What did he have to gain by seeing her father’s work? “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I don’t think I can agree to anything like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because my father guards his work very strictly. I don’t even get to see it.” Again she searched his eyes, trying to decide whether this was one of Walen’s tricks. “I’ll have to talk to him about it. Can we meet again?”
“Where and when?”
“How about right here? At three o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”
“I have to be careful. If anybody from Usherland saw me with you, word might get back to Walen.”
“What would he do?” She lifted her eyebrows. “Disown you for collaborating with the enemy?”
“Something like that.” He thought of the documents in the library; at the merest hint of collusion, Walen would send them back to the Lodge, and his hopes would be finished. “Okay. Three tomorrow.” He stood up from the booth, relieved that his first meeting with Raven Dunstan was almost over.
Raven wasn’t satisfied. There was something too simple about this. “Mr. Usher,” she said, before he could get away, “why does seeing my father’s book mean so much to you?”
“As I said, curiosity. I’m a writer myself.” Careful, he cautioned himself.
“Oh? What sort of things do you write?”
“Horror novels,” he explained, figuring it would do no harm to tell her. “Not under my real name, though. My pseudonym is Jonathan Strange.”
Raven had never heard the name before and wasn’t familiar with the books, but she didn’t say it. “Interesting choice of a profession,” she commented. The cowbell clanged again, and Raven glanced toward the door.
Myra Tharpe and her son had just come in. The woman was carrying a large wicker basket, which she laid on the counter near the cash register. The waitress looked through a door into the kitchen and called for Mr. Berthon.
Raven rose from her seat. The Broadleaf Cafe’s manager, a thick-set Foxton man with curly brown hair and a fleshy, bovine face, came out of the back to see the pies Mrs. Tharpe had brought.
“Well,” Rix said, “I’ll meet you to—” But then Raven had walked right past him, and he watched her approach the raggedy woman and boy. He noticed that Raven walked with a limp, and he wondered what had hurt her leg.
“Hello, Mrs. Tharpe,” Raven said. Myra looked at her and blinked, a cold curtain of suspicion and dislike descending over her eyes. Raven regarded the handsome young boy at the woman’s side. On his cheek and forehead were thin bandages, and Raven could smell—what was it?—the sharp odor of tobacco juice. “You must be Newlan. I’m Raven Dunstan.”
“Yes, ma’am. I saw you this mornin’, through my window.”
“I came up to talk to you, but your mother wouldn’t let me. I wanted to ask you some questions about—”
“Listen, you!” the other woman snapped. “You just leave us be, you hear?”
Berthon frowned. “Miz Tharpe, you’re talkin’ to the owner of the—”
“I know who I’m talkin’ to, thank you!” Her eyes blazed at Raven, and she flicked a glance at Rix as he came up behind her. “My son don’t want to be bothered. Is that spelled out clear enough for you? I’ll take the usual price for my pies, please, Mr. Berthon.”
Raven looked at the boy. He had the greenest eyes she’d ever seen, and right now they were troubled and confused. “You’re old enough to speak for yourself,” she said. “I’d like to know what happened to you and your brother the night before last.”
“Go out to the truck, New!” Myra told him sharply. She extended her palm toward Berthon, who was counting a few bills and change from the register.
“New?” Raven’s voice stopped the boy from leaving. “Look at that poster on the wall over there.” She motioned with a tilt of her head.
New looked at it, and so did Rix. Near the kitchen door was a yellow poster showing the pictures of four children—three boys and a girl, all about nine or ten years old. Stenciled above the pictures were the words REWARD FOR INFORMATION—HAVE YOU SEEN THESE CHILDREN? ALL REPLIES IN CONFIDENCE.
At the bottom of the poster was written CALL THE FOXTON DEMOCRAT, followed by a phone number. Rix had no idea what the poster meant, but he studied each photograph with a growing sense of unease.
“Two of those children,” Raven said, “have been missing for more than a year. The little girl vanished the first of this month. The other boy went out hunting with his father two weeks ago, and neither one of them came home. Sheriff Kemp has a stack of folders in his office, New. Each one of them represents a child, aged from six to fourteen, who disappeared into thin air—just as your brother did. I’m trying to find out how and why.”
New stared at the poster. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t speak.
Myra took her money and clasped her son’s shoulder to guide him out of the Broadleaf—but he resisted her as if he’d suddenly grown roots through the floor. She flashed a cutting glance at Raven, then seemed to see the man behind her for the first time. “You,” she whispered in an acid tone. “You’re an Usher, ain’t you?”
Oh Christ! Rix thought. Berthon and everybody else in the place were listening.
“I know you’re an Usher. You’ve got the Usher look about you. Are you with this woman, Mr. Usher?”
Rix knew there was no use in lying. “Yes, I am.”
“City woman,” Myra said mockingly, “what you’re lookin’ for is right under your nose. You ask anybody hereabouts what goes on at night at Usherland. You ask ’em about that Lodge, and what kind of thing lives inside there, all alone, in the dark. New! We’re goin’ now!”
In his mind, New could see Nathan’s face up there with the others. He should let
this woman know what he’d seen, he told himself. He was the man of the house now, and telling her would be the right thing to do. His mother’s hand tightened on his arm. “New,” she said.
The raw tension in her voice broke the spell. He looked at Raven Dunstan and wanted to tell her, but then his mother pulled at him and he let himself be led out the door. Feeling utterly helpless and frustrated. Raven watched through the door’s glass as Myra Tharpe slid behind the wheel of their pickup truck. The boy got into the passenger side, and then the truck backed away from the curb and rattled down the street toward Briartop Mountain.
“Damn it!” Raven swore softly.
“Don’t mind her, Miz Dunstan,” Berthon said. “Myra Tharpe’s one of them folks who stay to themselves, up on the mountain. Her husband died around the first of the year. She don’t know nothin’.”
That’s where you’re wrong, Raven thought.
Rix pulled his attention away from the poster. “What was all that about?”
“Something I’m working on.” She didn’t elaborate, because she didn’t want to discuss it with everyone in the cafe listening.
Rix was in a hurry to leave. He could feel the stares fixed to the back of his neck. As Raven paid her check, Rix glanced again at the children’s faces.
Disappeared into thin air, Raven had said. Just as your brother did.
He abruptly turned away and went out to stand in the bright sunlight. He’d parked the red Thunderbird around the corner, where it wouldn’t be seen from Foxton’s main street.
“What was she talking about?” Rix asked Raven when she came out. “She mentioned the Lodge.”
Raven looked off into the distance, where Briartop Mountain’s peak was lost in filmy clouds. This mention of the Lodge from Myra Tharpe wasn’t the first insinuation Raven had heard; she’d discounted the tales as mountain superstition—but now she wondered whether, as with all superstition, there might not be a grain of truth in it. “The people around here believe that someone—something—is living inside Usher’s Lodge. When was it closed up?”