Raven had felt him watching her, and glanced quickly at him. Though he appeared wan and tired, she thought he was a striking-looking man. He needed light in his eyes, she decided. They held an inner darkness that disturbed her.
“How’d you get involved with the Democrat? Why didn’t you go after a job on a city newspaper, or get into television journalism?”
“Oh, I worked for a city paper for a while. I was a feature editor for almost three years with a paper in Memphis. But when Dad called me, I had to come home. The Democrat’s been in my family for a long time. Besides, Dad needed help with his book.”
“Then you help him write it, too?”
“No. In fact, I’ve never seen any of the book. He won’t even let me come around when he’s working on it. My father’s a very private person, Mr. Usher. And he’s a very proud and stubborn man, as well.”
“That’s not exactly the opinion my father has of him,” Rix commented, and saw her smile faintly. It was a nice smile, and Rix hoped to see it again.
Raven took a left onto a long gravel drive. It climbed gently through pine woods to a gabled, two-story white house at the top of a hill, overlooking a magnificent vista of sky and mountains.
“Welcome to the homestead,” Raven said. As he followed her up the steps to the porch, Rix almost asked her about her limp—but then the front door opened and he had his first glimpse of Wheeler Dunstan.
22
RIX’S INITIAL THOUGHT. MACABRE as it was, was that the old man’s first name was appropriate. Dunstan was confined to a motorized wheelchair that he controlled by a lever in the armrest gearbox. “That’s far enough,” Dunstan commanded in a voice like the grating of coarse sandpaper. “Let me look at you.”
Rix stopped. The old man’s brilliant blue eyes—almost the same shade as his daughter’s, but much colder—examined him from head to foot, as Rix did the same to Wheeler Dunstan. He was probably in his early sixties, with close-cropped, iron-gray hair and the hard-bitten look of a Marine drill sergeant. He had a short gray beard and mustache that further enhanced his bristling appearance. Though the man’s legs looked thin and shriveled in the jeans he wore, his upper body was knotty and muscular, his forearms, exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of a faded blue workshirt, were twice the girth of Rix’s. His thick neck indicated that he’d been a man of some power before whatever happened to put him in that chair, and Rix guessed he might still be able to straighten out a horseshoe with his bare hands. Clenched between his teeth was a fist-sized corncob pipe, and blue smoke came from his mouth in quick, haughty puffs.
“I’m unarmed, if that’s what you’re looking for,” Rix said.
Dunstan smiled just a fraction, but his eyes remained wary. “You’ve got the Usher look, all right. Quick, boy—what’s the name of the police chief who threw you in the clink after that peace march?”
“Bill Blanchard. His nickname was ‘Bulldog.’”
“Your mother goes to a plastic surgeon in New York. What’s his name? Quick.”
“Dr. Martin Steiner. And he’s not in New York, he’s in Los Angeles.” Rix lifted his eyebrows. “Want me to name the winner of the ’48 World Series?”
“If you can, I’ll throw your ass off this porch. The real Rix Usher doesn’t know shit about sports.”
“I didn’t realize I had to pass an oral exam.”
“Yep,” Dunstan replied. He puffed on his pipe, taking his time in sizing Rix up, then removed it from his mouth and motioned toward the door with a jerk of his head. “Come on in, then.”
It was clearly a man’s house, full of dark wood and functional, inexpensive pine furniture. An electric lift attached to the staircase was used to convey the wheelchair to the second floor. Shelves around the red brick fireplace in the large parlor held such found objects as smooth river stones, dried Indian corncobs, an intricately woven bird’s nest, and an assortment of pinecones. A framed front page of the Foxton Democrat shouted, in three-inch-tall black letters, WAR DECLARED. Also on the walls were oil paintings of various barns.
“I did those,” Dunstan announced, noting Rix’s interest.
“I’ve got a studio at the back of the house. I like the texture and look of barns. Painting ’em relaxes me. Sit down.”
Rix settled into a chair with his back to the wall. The house smelled strongly of aromatic pipe tobacco. Light filtered in through a pair of ceiling-high bay windows that faced the mountain view. In the distance Rix could see the new bank building in Foxton, and the white steeple of the Foxton First Baptist Church.
Raven sat on the parlor couch a few feet away from Rix, where she could watch both him and her father. The old man’s chair whirred forward until his knees were almost touching Rix’s; for an instant Rix felt trapped, a traitor in the enemy’s camp. Dunstan tapped his fingers on the armrests, his head cocked slightly to one side.
“What’re you doin’ here?” the old man asked, his eyes hooded. “You’re Walen Ushers boy.” The word boy was spoken with a sneer.
“I’m his son, but I’m not his ‘boy.’ If you know me as well as you pretend, you’re aware of that.”
“I know you’ve been the black sheep of the family. I know you’ve been livin’ in another state for the last seven years. You look older than I expected.”
“I’m thirty-three,” Rix said.
“Well, time does things to people.” Dunstan’s hands wandered down to touch his crippled legs. “What’s your story, then? Why’d you agree to come here?”
“I explained the deal to your daughter yesterday. For the information I’ve got about Walen and his successor, I want to see your manuscript and know where you’re getting your research material.”
“The manuscript’s locked up,” Dunstan said flatly. “I won’t show my book to anyone.”
“Then I don’t guess we’ve got anything to discuss.”
Rix started to rise, but the old man said, “Wait a minute. I didn’t say that.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
Dunstan glanced quickly at his daughter, then back to Rix. “I’ve put in six years on that manuscript. No way in hell am I gonna let anybody see it. But we might still strike a deal, Mr. Usher. Anything you want to know that’s in the book, I’ll tell you. And I’ll show you how I’m writing it. But first you tell us what we want to know: What’s your father’s condition, and who’s going to take over the business?”
Rix paused thoughtfully. Traitor, betrayer, turncoat—all the definitions applied. But then he thought of how Walen’s belt had stung his legs, of how Boone had grinned before the fist had smashed down, of how the skeleton had swung in the De Peyser doorway. When are you gonna write somethin’ about us, Rixy? And in that instant, Rix was certain of his true purpose in coming to this house: somehow he had to take control of the book that Wheeler Dunstan was writing. He hoped the flash of realization in his eyes hadn’t given him away. But first he had to test the man. “No,” he said firmly. “It won’t work that way. You might not have a damned thing. I’m taking a chance being here. First you have to prove to me that you’ve got something I might be interested in knowing.”
Now it was the old man’s turn to consider. Smoke curled from his mouth. “What do you think?” he asked Raven.
“I’m not sure. I may be dead wrong…but I think we can trust him.”
Dunstan grunted softly, his brows knit. “All right,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
It came to him in the quick recollection of the angel strumming its lyre. “Simms Usher,” Rix said. “Tell me about him.”
Dunstan looked relieved, as if he’d been prepared for a heavier question. “Simms was your father’s younger brother. Nora St. Clair Usher’s second child. There’s not much to tell, really—except that he was retarded. Not severely, but enough so that Erik didn’t have very much to do with him. Erik despised imperfection. Simms died when he was six years old. That’s it.”
That was all? Why had Walen never mentioned Simms, then? Was he asham
ed of having a retarded brother? “How did he die? Something to do with his condition?”
“Nope,” Dunstan said. “An animal killed Simms.”
Rix’s interest perked up. “An animal? What kind of animal?”
“A wild animal,” the old man said dryly. “I don’t know what kind.” His pipe had gone out; he took it from his mouth to relight it with a match from his shirt pocket. “A gardener found what was left of the body. There wasn’t much. Simms had wandered away from the Lodge, chasin’ butterflies or something. An animal got him in the woods.” His match flared. “When the locals heard about it, there were all kinds of opinions. Some said Erik wanted the boy to be killed. Others said the animal was one of those that escaped from the burnin’ zoo about four years earlier. Anyway, it was never found. About two months after Simms died, Nora left Usherland and never came back.”
“She left Walen with Erik? Where’d she go?”
“St. Augustine, Florida. She married a Greek who owned a fleet of fishing boats, and she started teaching retarded children in a school down there. She taught right up until the day she died, in 1966. They put a statue of her up in the front yard.” He regarded Rix through a veil of smoke. “That’s all about Simms. I thought you were gonna ask me about something nobody else knows.”
If what Dunstan had told him was true, it was obvious the man knew his facts very well. But how had he gotten those facts? “I found Nora’s diary in the Gatehouse library,” Rix said. “Do you know about the deal Erik struck with St. Clair Stables?”
“Sure. Three million dollars bought Nora and four stud horses. Ludlow Usher signed the bank draft.”
Rix remembered a bit of information from the diary which he could use to really test Dunstan’s knowledge. “Erik had a particular horse in mind to win the Kentucky Derby. Do you know its name?”
He smiled faintly around his pipe. “King South. Erik scrubbed that horse down with beer and spent over a hundred thousand dollars on a special stall with fans and steam heating. He let the horse run free through the Lodge. Of course you know what happened at the 1922 Derby?”
Rix shook his head.
“King South was ahead by two lengths at the far turn when he staggered and hit the rail,” Dunstan said. “He went down. The infield observers swore they could hear the leg break. Or it might have been the jockey’s back they heard crackin’. In any case, King South had to be destroyed right on the track. Erik and Nora had watched the whole thing from their private box, though there’s no record of Erik’s response. They returned directly to Usherland. Around two o’clock the next morning, Erik went crazy and set fire to his zoo. A rumor is that Erik had the carcass of King South stuffed and mounted in his bedroom. A visitor from Washington supposedly found Erik stark naked, ridin’ that stuffed horse and whippin’ its flanks as if he were racin’ in the Derby. Any truth to that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been up to Erik’s bedroom.”
“Okay.” Dunstan gave out one last puff of smoke and removed the pipe from his mouth. He leaned slightly toward Rix, his stare unyielding. “Let’s hear it about Walen. What’s going on?”
The moment of truth, Rix thought. An unfamiliar sense of family loyalty tugged at him. But who would he be hurting? And this man had something he desperately wanted—no, desperately needed. “Walen’s dying,” Rix said. “Dr. John Francis from Boston is attending to him, but he doesn’t see much hope. He thinks Walen may go anytime.”
“Raven already figured that out,” Dunstan replied. “Francis is a specialist in cell degeneration. But there’s no stopping the Malady’s progress, is there? Old Walen must be locked in his Quiet Room by now.” A flicker of pleasure passed across his face. “I’m surprised he’s lasted this long. Goes to show he’s a tough old bastard. Now tell us something we don’t know: Who’s going to control the estate and the business?”
Rix paused with the name on his lips. He was betraying family secrets for the sake of gaining the trust of Wheeler Dunstan; he told himself that if he didn’t, he had no chance of getting his hands on that manuscript. Rix said, “Kattrina. My sister’s going to take over the business.”
Wheeler Dunstan was silent; then he gave a soft, low whistle. “Shitfire,” he said. “I always thought it would be Boone. Then, when I found out you were comin’ back, I assumed you were in the runnin’.”
“I’m not. I despise the business.”
“So I’ve heard, but ten billion dollars can change hate to love. That’s about what Usher Armaments is worth, isn’t it? Kattrina, huh? You sure about that?”
“Fairly certain. Dad’s been talking with her a lot, alone. She wants the responsibility, and she’s got a good record of success.”
“The weapons business is a whole hell of a lot different from modelin’. Of course, she’ll be surrounded by top-flight advisors and technical experts. All she has to do is sign her name to Pentagon contracts. Still…you wouldn’t be tryin’ to blow smoke in my face, would you?”
“No.”
“Why would he lie?” Raven ventured to her father. “There’s no point in it.”
“Maybe,” Dunstan said carefully. “I don’t think Boone’ll lie down and play dead, though. He’s acted the role of Usher heir in every go-go joint in Asheville. He’ll fight Kattrina for the power.”
“But he’ll lose. When Walen transfers everything to Katt, the papers will be ironclad.”
Dunstan still wasn’t convinced. “Kattrina’s got a reputation for drug use. She’s gone through everything from LSD to angel dust. Why would Walen pass the business on to a drughead?”
“She’s off drugs,” Rix said. Sullen anger burned in his stomach. Discussing Katt with a stranger like this was repellent. “Anyway, that’s none of your damned business.”
Dunstan’s glance at Raven held a bit of triumph in making Rix lose his cool.
“You’ve got what you wanted,” Rix told him. “Now I want my part. How are you doing your research?”
“I’ll show you.” The wheelchair whirred backward a few feet, and Rix rose from his chair. “My study’s down in the basement. I’ll even tell you the book title: Time Will Tell the Tale. That’s the first sentence, too. Come on, then.” He led Rix, with Raven following behind, through a short corridor and to a doorway that opened onto a gently sloping concrete ramp. They went down it and into a basement that looked like any other, full of odds and ends, old clothes, and broken furniture. Dunstan rolled toward a door on the far side of the basement and took a key ring with one key and a tiny brass charm in the shape of a typewriter from his shirt pocket. He turned a lock, then pulled the door open. “Come on, take a look.” He returned the key ring to his pocket, reached in, and switched on the lights.
Dunstan’s study was a small, windowless room paneled in pine, with a concrete floor and a tile ceiling. Metal bookshelves that took up almost every inch of wall space held thick leatherbound volumes. Books, newspapers, and magazines stood in stacks around Dunstan’s desk; atop the desk, amid a scatter of books and papers on a worn-looking brown blotter, were a telephone, a green-shaded high-intensity lamp—and a word processor, hooked up to a daisy-wheel printer.
“On those shelves are one hundred and thirty years of the Foxton Democrat,” Dunstan explained. “Every issue mentions the Ushers at least once. I’ve interviewed about sixty former Usher servants, groundskeepers, carpenters, and painters. Of course, Raven does my legwork for me.”
“You’re writing the book on a word processor?”
“That’s right. Was doing the thing on a typewriter, but I bought this two years ago. It helps me with my research, too. A lot of libraries in major cities are hooked up to a computer network that lets you go through old genealogical records, rare-document collections, and church records. Whatever I need copies of, my friends at the Asheville library can get for me.”
Rix looked at a stack of magazines next to the desk. There were back issues of Time, Newsweek, Forbes, Business Week, and others—all containing, Rix a
ssumed, some fact, fiction, or fancy about the Ushers. On the man’s desk were a few musty-looking books and some yellowed pieces of paper covered with ornate, feminine handwriting.
Letters, Rix thought. He pretended to be examining the word processor, but his glance veered toward the letters. He caught the words “Dearest Erik” on one piece of paper.
“That’s the tour,” Dunstan said suddenly. His voice betrayed an edge of tension, as if he realized what Rix had seen.
Rix heard the wheelchair motor whine as Dunstan approached him; but by then Rix had picked up the letter and sniffed at the paper. The scent of faded perfume was familiar. Lavender. The letter was from the same woman who’d adored Erik’s whipping techniques. “Where did you get this?” Rix asked, turning toward Wheeler Dunstan.
“From an ex-servant who kept some of Erik’s documents. The man lives in Georgia.” He reached up to take it, but Rix held the letter away from him.
“That’s bullshit. All the family records, documents, and letters are kept locked in the Lodge’s basement, and they’ve been down there for years. No servant would’ve dared to keep anything that belonged to the family.” He stopped, realizing the truth from Dunstan’s grim, haughty expression. “You got this from Usherland, didn’t you?”
Dunstan’s chin lifted a few notches higher. “I’ve shown you what you wanted to see. You can leave now.”
“No. This letter—hell, all these letters!—came from Usherland. I want to know how you got them off the estate.” As Dunstan stared at him defiantly, Rix felt a hammerblow of realization. “There’s a spy on the inside, isn’t there? Collecting letters and whatever else he can get his hands on? Who is it?”
“You don’t really want to know,” Dunstan replied. “Not really. Now leave, why don’t you? Our business is over.”
“What are you going to do? Call the sheriff to make me leave?”
“Rix,” Raven said, “please—”
“I knew it was a damned fool mistake to let him come here!” Dunstan raged to his daughter. “We didn’t need him! Shitfire!”