“That’s an heirloom! He even sleeps with it! It would be impossible to—”
“Hush,” Tigré said gently. “I want that cane. I admired it yesterday at the train station. Get it away from him, I don’t care how. Fuck him senseless—you were always adept at that.” He glared at the crying infant. “Can’t you shut him up?”
“I won’t be blackmailed,” Cynthia vowed defiantly. “You don’t know who you’re talking to: I’m Cynthia Cordweiler Usher! My husband loves me, and I love him. He won’t listen to your filth!”
Tigré leaned forward, his golden eyes bestial with barely controlled rage. “You forget—I know where the bodies are buried. The Chicago police might like to learn who and what you really are. Aram Usher’s a smart man; he’ll dump you in the gutter if he even thinks… Damn it to hell!” He suddenly darted around the crib and snatched the crying child from Cynthia’s arms. She grasped for the baby, but Tigré laughed and quickly stepped backward. He slid his hand around Ludlow’s neck.
“Little tit-sucking bastard,” he breathed, his eyes wild with fury. Cynthia had seen him like this before, and she didn’t dare make a sound. “If you were mine, I’d wring your neck and throw you out that damned window! Go on, scream for your mother! Scream!”
“Give him to me.” She was desperately trying to remain calm. Her voice cracked, and her arms trembled as she reached for her child.
Tigré thrust his grinning face toward the infant’s. “You’ll remember me long after I’m gone, won’t you? That’s good. I like to leave my mark.” He held the child over Cynthia’s arms and dropped him like a sack of laundry. As she caught him, Tigré reached forward and ripped her gown open. Buttons flew. Both of Cynthia’s breasts were exposed. She clutched the child to her, and he began to suckle.
“Mrs. Usher?” Righteous called from beyond the door. “You all right, ma’am?”
Tigré laid his riding crop against her cheek.
“Yes,” she said in a whisper. Then, louder: “Yes! I’m… I’m fine. Mr. Tigré is just leaving.”
“You remember what I said. Five thousand dollars and the cane. From then on, ten thousand a month.” He traced her cheekbone with the crop. “You have a lovely complexion, Cindy. You always were a beauty. Perhaps you’ll visit me at the Crockett Hotel yourself?”
“Get out!” she hissed.
“I’ll be waiting for your first payment,” he told her, withdrawing toward the door. He stopped to smile and bow gracefully, and then he left the room.
Quickly, Cynthia set Ludlow aside and began to gather up the coins. She stuffed them hastily into the pillowcase to dispose of later.
A week afterward, Aram’s cane disappeared from the parlor. Servants scurried through the Lodge in search of it. Cynthia surmised that one of the servants had stolen and sold it. Aram spent long hours locked in his room, disconsolate, after firing half of the staff. Cynthia stayed to herself, spending most of her time with the infant, who slept in the fur-trimmed crib beside her bed.
Less than three months later, a shriek from Cynthia in the middle of the night brought Aram running from his chamber down the corridor. He burst in to find her strangling his son; Ludlow’s face was blue in the lamplight, and his small body writhed as he fought for breath. He tore her away from him, but she screamed, “He’s choking!” and Aram realized something was caught in the baby’s throat.
He wrenched Ludlow’s mouth open and dug in with his fingers. “Help him!” Cynthia begged frantically. Aram picked the child up and held him by the heels, trying to shake the object loose. Ludlow’s throat was still blocked. Cynthia grasped the bellcord and began tugging at it, summoning servants from a lower floor. The bells of alarm echoed through the halls, an eerie chorus of disaster.
Keil Bodane, old Whitt’s son, reached the room first. He rushed toward Aram, took the infant in his arms, turned him upside down, and whacked him hard on the back. Whacked him again. And a third time.
A gurgling cough burst from the baby’s throat. Something clinked on the floor and rolled away. Then Ludlow howled as if trying to wake the dead. Sobbing, Cynthia took him and rocked him in her arms.
“What’s this?” Aram bent to the floor, picked up something, and held it to the light. Cynthia saw the glint of silver—and the breath halted in her own lungs. “‘The Willows,’” he read from the coin. “‘Room Number Four. Cindy.’” When he looked up at her, his face was already freezing into the hard mask that he would wear for the rest of his life. “Explain to me,” he whispered, “how a whorehouse token almost strangled my son to death.”
Wheeler Dunstan watched Rix carefully. “Cynthia must have missed one of the tokens when she was gathering them up. The thing had lodged somewhere in the baby’s crib. Ludlow swallowed it. And so her secret was out. When she was sixteen years old, she was a working prostitute at a whorehouse in New Orleans.”
“What happened? Did Aram divorce her?”
“Nope. I think he really loved her, very much. He’d been married once before, to a Chinese girl in San Francisco, and he had a daughter by her: Shann, who in 1858 was twelve years old and studying music in Paris. But he admired Cynthia’s business ability and of course he adored Ludlow. A divorce would’ve ruined Cynthia socially, and probably financially, too.”
“What about Tigré? If he had such a hold on her, he wouldn’t give up so easily, would he?”
“Aram found him at the Crockett Hotel—it stood where the Crockett Mall is now—and publicly challenged him to a duel. Of course, dueling was against the law, but Aram Usher had connections in high places. Cynthia begged him not to fight, because Randolph Tigré was an expert shot, but he wouldn’t listen. They met in a field not too far from here. Tigré even brought the cane. They were to fight with gold-plated Usher pistols.” Dunstan smoked for a moment in silence. “It was no contest. Tigré shot him between the eyes, and Aram Usher fell dead on the spot.”
“And then Tigré went after Cynthia again?”
“No,” Dunstan replied. “Aram loved her, he wanted to protect both her and the boy. When Keil Bodane checked Aram’s pistol, he found it was unloaded. It had never been loaded. In essence, Aram had committed suicide—and Randolph Tigré, a black man with a gambler’s reputation, had committed murder. Tigré was forced to flee the state. In death, Aram had won. His will provided that Cynthia take over the armaments business and the estate, but it would all go to Ludlow on his eighteenth birthday.”
“What about the cane?” Rix asked. “How did it get back into the family?”
“That’s another question I can’t answer. Ludlow retrieved it—but how, I don’t know.” He took the pipe from his mouth and held it between his palms. “There are a lot of questions that need answers. Sometimes I think I’ll never find them. This book is important to me—damned important.” Dunstan clenched his hands together, knots of muscle standing up in his forearms. “Maybe I’ve spent six years workin’ on it, but it’s been in my mind for a long time.”
“Ever since the accident?” Rix ventured. “Edwin told me about it. I’m sorry.”
“Fine,” Dunstan said bitterly. “You’re sorry about it, my wife is dead, my daughter has deep emotional and physical scars, I’m crippled—and Walen Usher sat behind a wall of lawyers who said I was drunk when we crashed. He went home to his Lodge, and I had to fight with every ounce of strength in my body just to keep my newspaper. I saw how the Usher mind worked—take what you please, when you please, and the consequences be damned. From that point on, I wanted to find out everything I could about you Ushers. I’m going to finish this book, no matter what your family throws at me—and then, by God, people will know the truth: that you Ushers have the moral sense of maggots and no conscience at all, and you’ll sell your souls for the almighty dollar.”
Rix started to protest, then reconsidered. His presence here, he realized, was proof of what the man had said; morally, he was betraying his family in pursuit of the money and recognition this book might bring him. Still, what choice
did he have? If he wanted control of this project, he first had to control Dunstan’s trust. “How can I help you?” he asked calmly.
The other man stared at him in silence, trying to make up his mind. “Okay,” he said finally. “If you really want to help, I’ll give you the chance. As I said, I need some questions answered: How did Ludlow get the cane back? How did Cynthia Usher die, and when? What happened to Shann?” His eyes were icy with determination. “Ludlow was a young genius with a photographic memory. I’ve read that he built a workshop somewhere in the Lodge’s basement for his inventions. What were they? Then there’s another question—a larger one, and probably the most important of all.”
“What?”
Dunstan smiled slightly, with a trace of arrogance. “You find me the other answers first. Then we’ll talk again.”
“And you’ll show me the manuscript?”
“Maybe,” Dunstan said.
Rix nodded, and rose to leave. For now, he’d have to play this game Dunstan’s way. “I’ll be back,” he promised, and went to the door.
“Rix?” Dunstan called after him. Rix paused. “You be careful,” Dunstan told him. “You don’t know Walen the way I do.”
Rix left the house and went to his car under a sky dappled with gathering clouds.
28
RIX DROVE PAST THE GATEHOUSE after leaving Dunstan’s, heading toward the Lodge. He was in no hurry to return to the house, where masking tape had been placed over all the light switches. He would have to do his searching in the library tonight by candlelight. Walen’s stench was getting stronger; it ambushed Rix from around corners, crept under doors, and permeated the clothes in his closet. At the breakfast table, when Rix had announced what Walen wanted done, Margaret had sat like a statue with her fork halfway to her mouth; she’d blinked slowly, lowered the fork, and looked across the table at him as if he’d lost his mind.
Katt had been shaken as well. “You mean we’ve got to live in the dark?”
“That’s what he told me. We can use candles, of course. We’ve got enough silver candelabras around here to light up a cathedral.”
“Not one electric light?” Margaret had asked in a soft, strained voice. The glassy sheen on her eyes worried Rix; she looked close to a nervous breakdown. “Not one?”
“I’m sorry. He said no electric lights or appliances of any kind, except those in the kitchen.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, of course. Otherwise, how would we eat?”
“I’m surprised Dad didn’t call you in to deliver the message,” Rix had told Katt. “I didn’t think he trusted me that much.”
Katt had showed him a twitch of a smile. “That’s because he knows how much I hate the dark,” she’d said nervously. “I have to sleep with the lights on. He knows that. It’s stupid, I know, but…the dark scares me. It’s like…death closing in around me or something.”
“Come on, it won’t be that bad. We’ll have candles. We can all walk around like we’re in a Vincent Price movie.”
“Trust you to think of it that way!” Margaret had snapped at him. “We’re in a dire emergency, and you make tasteless jokes! My God!” Her voice got higher and more shrill. “Your father’s sick, and you make jokes! This family is in crisis, and you make jokes! Did you make a joke when you found your wife dead in the bathtub?”
By sheer willpower, Rix had stopped himself from smashing his breakfast plate against the wall. He’d forced his food down and gotten out of the room as soon as he could.
He saw the Lodge’s chimneys and lightning rods through the thinning trees, and he involuntarily slowed the Thunderbird. When he reached the bridge, he braked the car and sat with the engine idling. Before him, the bridge’s paving stones showed the wear and tear of a hundred years of hooves, carriage wheels, and automobile tires. Black lake water was ruffled by the wind, and ducks fed on reeds in the rocky shallows.
The mountainous Lodge, with its bricked-up windows, stood like the silent centerpiece of Usherland. What secrets had it watched over? Rix wondered. What secrets did it still contain?
He heard the high whine of the Jetcopter approaching, and looked up as it roared over the Lodge and veered toward the Gatehouse helipad. Frightened birds rose from the trees and fled. Who was coming in this time? The two men he’d seen a few days before? If Walen permitted them to use the Jetcopter at a time when he couldn’t stand noise, then they were obviously important to him. Walen was working on his last project—what was it? What had he been researching in the old books?
A movement near the Lodge caught his attention. There was a palomino horse tied up under the stone porte-cochere that guarded the Lodge’s main entrance. Spooked by the helicopter’s noise, it was pulling at its tether. The reins held fast, though, and after a minute or so the beautiful animal settled down.
Someone was inside the Lodge, Rix thought. Boone? Katt? What were they doing in there, prowling around in the dark?
Rix’s hands tightened around the wheel. He guided the Thunderbird forward a few feet, onto the bridge, and stopped again. Then a few more feet—at a crawl, as if he feared the stones might collapse beneath him. At the bridge’s midpoint, Rix felt sweat trickling down under his arms. The Lodge seemed to fill up the horizon. When he reached the far end of the bridge, he saw that the face of the Lodge was covered with minute cracks. In some places, chunks of stone and marble had toppled to the ground. The decaying carcasses of birds lay around the bases of the walls, their feathers caught like snowflakes in the untrimmed hedges and flowerbeds. Ornamental statues of fauns, centaurs, Gorgons, and other mythological creatures stood around the island, guarding marble fountains, meandering pathways, and overgrown gardens. Rix peered up through the windshield at the array of gargoyles and statues that decorated the upper ledges of the house. From the rooftop more than a hundred feet above, the stone lions watched him approach.
The Lodge was clearly in need of attention. Vines were snaking up the walls, probing into cracks and crevices. Black stains indicated water seepage. The driveway was pitted with holes, and the island’s expensive grass had eroded away to show the rough, rocky soil beneath.
Rix stopped the car. He hadn’t been this close to the Lodge since he was a little boy; he was amazed to find his feeling of irrational fear slowly changing to a sense of awe. No matter what he’d thought of the Lodge, he knew it had once been a stunning masterpiece. The craftsmanship that had gone into the gargoyles, finials, arches, balconies, foliations, and turrets was truly majestic; much of the work probably couldn’t be duplicated today at any price. How much would a house like the Lodge be worth? Rix wondered. Thirty million dollars? At least that much, without one stick of furniture. He guided the car beneath the porte-cochere. The palomino was tied to one of several iron hitching posts near the sweeping stone stairway that led to the massive oak front door. Rix cut the engine, but did not leave the car. The front door was wide open. Above it was a green-and-black marble representation of the Usher crest: three rearing lions separated by bendlets.
Rix didn’t have long to wait. In less than ten minutes, Boone, carrying a bull’s-eye lantern, came through the doorway. He stopped abruptly when he saw the Thunderbird; then he recovered, pulled the door shut and descended the stairs.
Rix rolled his window down. “What’s going on?” His voice quavered; in the presence of the Lodge he was a jittery fool.
Boone kicked away dead leaves that had been blown onto the steps. “What’re you doin’, Rixy?” he asked without looking at his brother. “Spyin’ on me?”
“No. Are you doing something worth spying on?”
“Don’t be cute,” Boone said sharply. “I thought you stayed away from the Lodge.”
“I do. I saw your horse from the shore.”
“And so you drove across the bridge to have a look, huh?” Boone smiled slyly. “Or did you want to have a closer look at the Lodge?”
“Maybe both. What were you doing inside there?”
“Nothin’. I come ove
r here sometimes, to walk and look around. No harm in that, is there?”
“Aren’t you afraid of getting lost?”
“I ain’t afraid of nothin’. Besides,” he said, “I know my way around the first floor. It’s simple when you figure out how the corridors run.”
“Does Dad know you come over here and walk around?”
Boone smiled coldly. “No. Why should he?”
“Just curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat, Rixy. You know, I’m surprised at you. You must have more nerve than I thought. After what happened to you inside there, I never thought you’d get even this close to the Lodge. How’s it feel, Rixy? Can’t you remember gettin’ lost in there? The way the dark closed in on you? The way you screamed, and nobody could hear you?” He leaned against the car, snapping the lantern on and off in Rix’s face. “I’ve got a light. How’s about you and me goin’ in the Lodge again, together? I’ll give you the grand tour. Okay? How about it?”
“No, thanks.”
Boone snorted. “I didn’t think so. Long as you’re in that car, you figure you’re safe, huh? Bad ol’ Lodge can’t get you in that car. See, you ought to be like one of the heroes in those books of yours—they’ve got the guts to go into dark places, don’t they?”
It was time to strike. Rix said, “Dad told me. I know about the freaks.”
Boone’s thin little smile was jarred. It began to fade; a wildness surfaced in Boone’s eyes, the look of an animal trapped in a corner. Then he got himself under control and said easily, “So he told you, so what? I run a good business. Place talent with carnivals and sideshows all over the Southeast! Hell, I made a half-million bucks last year, after taxes!”
“Why the charade? Because you didn’t want Mom and Katt knowing what sort of ‘talent’ you really promote?”
“They wouldn’t understand. They’d figure it was beneath an Usher. But they’d be wrong, Rixy! There’s a demand for freaks. Armless, legless, midgets, alligator-skinned boys, Siamese twins, deformed babies and animals—people pay to see ’em! Somebody’s got to make a profit off it. And somebody’s got to find the freaks, too. Which ain’t as easy a job as you might think.”