Rix paused, looking at the contents of the treasure box. What had been there? What was he looking for? He couldn’t remember. Part of his mind seemed to have been blanked out. He frowned, trying to think.
“Rix?” Edwin urged. “You’d better go up and see him.”
“Yeah. Right. I’d better go up and see him.”
Edwin walked with him along the candlelit corridor to the foot of the stairs to the Quiet Room. Rix ascended the steps alone and, still dazed, put on a surgical mask to ward off the stench.
In the Quiet Room, the storm’s fury was muted to a distant bass rumble. Rix stood near the door after he’d closed it, letting his eyes get used to the darkness. A few feet away from him was the vague form of Mrs. Reynolds, sitting motionless in her chair. Sleeping? he wondered. She didn’t rise to greet him. He could hear his father’s hoarse breathing, and followed it across the room.
“You,” Walen hissed.
Rix flinched. It was cold in the room, but hanging around his father’s bed was the fever of decay, like a stifling preview of hell.
“Where…have you been…this morning?” Walen’s whisper was so mangled, so far removed from a human voice, that Rix could hardly understand it.
“I drove to Foxton.”
“Why?”
“I needed to go for a drive. To think.” He saw his father’s shape, curled like a reptile on the bed. The ebony cane lay beside him.
“You think… I’m an utter fool, don’t you?”
“What?”
With the cane, Walen reached painfully out to the control panel beside the bed. A switch clicked. One of the television screens came on. Though the contrast and brightness were adjusted very low, the picture was unmistakable. It was a shot of Wheeler Dunstan’s house on a sunny day. At the bottom of the screen were white numerals that gave the date and time, the seconds ticking past. Rix caught his breath; it was the first afternoon he’d gone with Raven to her house. The remote-control camera must have been hidden twenty feet or so up a tree, because there was a downward angle to the picture.
The yellow Volkswagen entered the frame and stopped in front of the house. As the two figures got out and started up the porch steps, Dunstan emerged in his wheelchair. The camera lens zoomed in. The frame froze, showing Rix, Raven, and her father standing together, linked in complicity.
The brown van. Usher Security.
“Mr. Meredith…brought that videotape to me. Look at me, damn you!” Walen commanded.
Rix forced himself to look fully at his father, and almost choked with terror. Since Rix had seen him in the hallway early this morning, Walen had deteriorated at a horrifying speed. His head was misshapen, the forehead and temples swollen by some hideous internal pressure. The gray flesh of his face was splitting open, like ill-fitting pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Yellow fluids had leaked out, gleaming in the screen’s faint glow like the mucous tracks of garden snails. Walen’s eyes were deep black holes, registering no light or life.
“You’ve been followed…ever since you came here. I knew you’d show your true colors, eventually. Traitor,” he whispered. “You miserable goddamned traitor! You’re unfit to carry the Usher name, and I…swear I’ll see you driven off Usherland…like a dog! There won’t be a dime for you, not one! Go back to Atlanta and find some other weak little slut…to support you until you drive her to suicide, too!”
Rix had started backing away from his father’s verbal onslaught, but the reference to Sandra stopped him. His face contorted; memories of a hundred unsettled scores from his youth flooded unbidden into his mind. The rage swelled within him, twisted and bitter. Rix slowly approached the bed again. “Let me tell you something, old man,” he said. His voice was at a normal register this time, and Walen cringed. “I’m going to write that family history. Me. No matter how long it takes, I’m going to keep at it until it’s finished. It’ll be a good book, Dad, I promise you. People are going to want to read it.”
“You…little fool…” Walen gasped, his hands clasped to his ears.
“I’ve found out so many enlightening details from those documents downstairs,” Rix continued. “Like how Cynthia Usher murdered her first husband. And how Shann Usher lost her mind after she wrote music that made people kill themselves. Ludlow was insane before he died, locked up in his Quiet Room, raving about thunderstorms. And let’s not forget about Erik, Dad. The Caligula of the Usher line. I’ll be sure to write about the Fourth of July when Erik shot up Briartop Mountain, and about the deal he made to buy Nora St. Clair like breeding stock. How about that, Dad? Want me to dedicate the book to you?”
Suddenly, with a moan that made the hair stir at the back of Rix’s neck, Walen heaved himself up in bed. In the ghostly light of the television screen, his face was a rictus of hate, the yellow and crooked teeth glittering in his mouth. His arm flashed out with the ebony cane. It struck Rix sharply on the collarbone. The next blow hit Rix’s shoulder, near the bruise where Wheeler Dunstan had struck him with the poker, and he cried out. When Walen flailed with the cane a third time, Rix caught it and wrenched it from his hand. A cold jolt of power shot up Rix’s arm.
His hand tightened around the cane until he was holding it defiantly in his clenched fist. He held it up toward his face, saw light spark off the lion’s head. Ten billion dollars, he thought. All the money in the world. Someone would always make the weapons. The Usher name was a deterrent to war. Ten billion dollars…
“The scepter!” Walen rasped. “Give it…back to me!”
Rix stepped away from the bed as Walen reached for him. Behind him, Mrs. Reynolds remained motionless in her chair.
Walen’s hand stretched for the cane. Tubes tore out of his arm. “Give it back!” he commanded. “It’s mine, damn you!”
Thunder shook the Gatehouse. The scepter seemed to burn into Rix’s hand as if he had thrust his fingers into fire. Magic, he thought. There was magic in the cane, something powerful and protective. Someone would always make the weapons. All the money in the world…
A terrible, greedy laugh strained to escape from behind his clenched teeth. And from the dark stranger in his soul came the shout I want it I want it all!
Walen screamed. In the screen’s glow, Rix saw the flesh ripple over his father’s face. The bones were moving. There was a sharp cracking noise, as of twigs being snapped by a brutal hand. The fissures in Walen’s face split wider.
Walen began babbling in a mad, keening whine: “Boone…where’s Boone… Kattrina…oh God oh God I heard her scream…traitor you traitor… Edwin…in the Lodge Pendulum in the Lodge…” His body thrashed in agony. His entire head was swelling, the fissures gaping open. A steaming grayish green substance began oozing through the cracks.
Rix was paralyzed with revulsion and terror. Then he turned toward Mrs. Reynolds in nightmarish slow motion. “Help him!” he heard himself shout, but Mrs. Reynolds didn’t move.
“It’s…you,” Walen whispered in disbelief. His head was slowly bursting apart. “Oh my God. You’re…the next one.”
There was a brittle, sickening crunch. Two tears rolled down from the darkness of Walen Usher’s eyes. “God…forgive…” he managed to say—and then his entire face burst open, a ragged seam running from forehead to chin. The grayish green matter, like mold that had grown too long in a hidden and evil place, bubbled out of the rip.
With a soft, relieved sigh, the body slithered to the bed and lay still. The oozing stuff that had broken through his head formed a foul halo on the sheet.
Rix stood staring at his father’s corpse as shock enveloped him like a freezing shroud.
“It’s done.” A strong hand gripped his shoulder. “The scepter’s been passed.”
When Rix didn’t respond, Edwin stepped around in front of him and removed Rix’s surgical mask. He lifted Rix’s chin with a forefinger and examined the dilated, unfocused eyes. “Can you hear me, Rix?”
He was a little boy again, lost and trembling in the Lodge’s cold darkness. Edwin’s vo
ice was distant—Can you hear me, Rix?—but he followed it through the winding corridors. Edwin was there. Edwin was his friend. Edwin would protect him, and take care of him forever.
Rix flinched. The skeleton with bloody eye sockets swung through his mind. Hair floated in a bloody metal tub. Edwin’s face, daubed with orange and black by firelight and shadows, emerged from the darkness. It was a younger face, and in it the blue-gray eyes held a steely glint. As Edwin’s arms folded little Rix against him, the child saw orange light dance on one of Edwin’s blazer buttons.
It was made of silver, and bore the embossed face of a roaring lion.
The child stared at it, mesmerized, his eyes swollen and unblinking. It was a pretty button, he thought. His hand rose up and slowly covered the button. It was round and shining and would look fine in his treasure box.
Edwin stroked the child’s hair. “Rix?” His voice was as soft as black velvet. “I want you to forget what you’ve seen in this room. You were never here. I want you to forget. Can you hear me, Rix?”
All his attention was focused on the silver button. Nothing else mattered—not the thing behind him that dangled from a hook in the ceiling, not the bloody washtub with the hair in it—nothing but the silver button.
And the little boy who had grown up to be a man with a terrible memory locked behind the image of a silver blazer button said, “Yes sir.”
The adult Rix blinked as the visions from the past whirled through his mind like a storm. Pumpkin Man’s in the woods, he thought crazily. And then: No, no.
The Pumpkin Man was standing before him, wearing the face of a man he loved.
Edwin looked toward the bed, at the corpse of Walen Usher, then returned his attention to Rix. “The old passes away,” he said, “and the new takes its place. Cass and I love you very much, Rix. You were always our favorite. You’re the one we chose, a long time ago. We hoped the landlord would choose you, too.”
“Land…lord?” Rix asked huskily, hearing himself speak as if from the bottom of a well.
“The landlord of Usherland. The real landlord. You have the wand now, Rix. The landlord’s chosen you, and discarded Boone and Katt. You’re going to make us proud, Rix; and you’re going to make the landlord proud.”
“I…don’t…”
“I want to answer your questions,” Edwin said. “I want to help you understand. But to do that we have to go into the Lodge. There’s someone else the landlord wants—someone who can help you after Cass and I have fulfilled our duties.”
“Logan…?”
“No.” Edwin shook his head. “I was wrong about Logan. I chose him to follow me, but he’s too weak, too undisciplined. The landlord’s chosen someone stronger. We have to go now, and we have to hurry. I want you to wait at the front of the house until I bring the limousine around. Do you understand that?”
Rix couldn’t think beyond the sound of Edwin’s voice. Edwin was here. Edwin would protect him and take care of him. “Yes,” he answered.
Edwin led him out of the Quiet Room. Rix moved like a sleepwalker, but kept the cane gripped tightly in his hand.
Ten minutes after they’d gone, Mrs. Reynolds awakened from a terrible dream. She’d been sitting here in the dark, she recalled, but then she’d drifted into a netherworld of eerie disembodied voices, angry shouts, and screams of agony. Her body had been leaden, and she’d had no voice. The last thing she remembered with anything approaching clarity was Mr. Bodane coming up to ask how Mr. Usher was feeling today. She rubbed her eyes; they were raw, as if she hadn’t blinked and all the moisture had dried up.
She noticed the dim glow of the television screen, rose from her chair, and went over to Mr. Usher’s bed.
Nothing in her years of training as a nurse could have prevented the scream that followed.
43
GREEDIGUTS STALKED ALONG THE tunnel after New and Raven. It approached to within ten feet, then remained crouched on its muscular hind legs. Beneath the lambent eyes and bloody snout, its forked tongue flicked out and quivered in the air.
It was all Raven could do to hold back the cry of terror that was locked behind her teeth, but she stared at the beast with a stunned sense of awe as well. She knew what it was: the mythic monster that roamed Briartop Mountain and Usherland. The Pumpkin Man’s familiar. The panther’s eyes were fixed on New with deadly intent, its head slung low and the muscles bunched along its flanks. Though in a posture of attack, Greediguts stood like a thing of black stone, blocking the tunnel.
New saw the scorched streak across its triangular skull where the gnarled stick had struck. Greediguts was respectful of that stick, he thought—and maybe of him, too. “Up the steps,” he told Raven, not daring to avert his attention from the panther. “Go ahead.”
She went up, and New followed. Greediguts watched them, but remained motionless. They entered the doorway and stood in a cold, rock-floored chamber on the lowest level of the house. Their lights revealed thick granite pillars supporting the ceiling, which soared at least twenty feet above their heads. The pillars, many of which were cracked and had been repaired with mortar, were supplemented by dozens of iron pilings that sank through the floor.
Near the doorway, Raven’s light found a stone staircase that ascended to the next level. As they started up, they again heard a massive crash of thunder, muffled by the walls but still carrying awesome power. The sound faded, and silence returned.
But, in another moment, New, who was several steps ahead of Raven, suddenly stopped. In the air was a faint, bass moan that seemed to pass right through New’s bones. The tone began rising in volume and power, enveloping New and Raven, coming from no distinct direction but rather from all directions at once. As the bass tone strengthened—becoming the same eerie, inhuman sound they’d heard in the tunnel—pain stabbed their eardrums. Rock dust fell from above, and beneath their feet the staircase trembled like a rope bridge. Still the tone’s force increased, making their bones throb and ache as if twisted by powerful hands. Raven’s knees weakened and she tried to cover her ears, but the sound was hammering inside her with a force that she feared would crack her bones like dried clay. She was barely able to hear herself cry out in pain.
The tone began to ebb, and as it faded away, the vibrations beneath their feet stopped. When the sound was gone, New and Raven were left with a sensation of having been inside a gigantic tolling bell. Raven swallowed until her eardrums popped. She was weak and disoriented, and her muscles felt deeply bruised.
Dust swirled through the beam from New’s lantern. His head pounded fiercely, and he dragged in a lungful of cold air that suddenly seemed heavy and clinging around him. “What was that?” he asked, his hearing still distorted. “An earthquake?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. It sounded like the same noise we heard in the tunnel, but I’ve never felt anything like that before. I thought my skull was going to split open.” She swept the light around her—and froze with fear.
The panther was crouched behind her on the steps, about six feet away, its eyes blazing in the beam of light. Its tongue darted out, questing toward her.
“Don’t move,” New warned her. “I don’t think it means to hurt us. If it was gonna attack, I think it would have by now. Just come up real slow, and walk in front of me.”
Raven did as he said. The monster advanced two steps, then waited for them to start ascending again. Herdin’ us, New thought. The bastard is herdin’ us like sheep.
At the top of the stairs was a long corridor. The lights revealed a series of vaulted openings that led into dark, cavernous chambers. Farther along the corridor were several closed doors, sealed with brass bolts. As New and Raven searched for another staircase to the next level, New heard the scrape of the panther’s claws on the stones.
He whirled around, ready to defend himself and Raven with the wand.
But Greediguts had wheeled away, and was loping down the corridor in the opposite direction. The beast vanished beyond the range of New’s l
ight. Who—or what—was it going after? New wondered grimly.
“Look at the walls,” Raven said. As their lights played over the stones, New and Raven saw that the walls were covered with hairline fractures from ceiling to floor. At their feet, some of the stones had shattered like ice cubes. A frost of rock dust lay around them, and rose in wraiths before the lights. This section of the Lodge, Raven thought, was under tremendous stress; on the level directly below, the granite pillars and iron pilings supported the entire, immense weight of the house.
New, looking for a way out, probed his light through one of the openings in the corridor. He found something he couldn’t make heads or tails of. “Miz Dunstan,” he said, and Raven came across the corridor to see.
It was a chamber at least fifty feet wide and forty or fifty feet high, its stone walls and floor split by deep cracks. Rock dust and grit filmed what appeared to be old electrical apparatus—weird iron machines with exposed tubes and intricate networks of wiring. On a long oak worktable were bundles of cables, dusty pieces of machines, and various dials and gauges. Cables ran along the walls and snaked across the floor.
But the chamber’s strange centerpiece was a discolored brass pendulum about thirty feet long that descended from an arrangement of cables, pulleys, and wooden gears at the ceiling and hung five feet from the floor. Placed on iron pedestals in an exact circle beneath the three-foot-wide, half-moon-shaped pendulum bob were eight tuning forks of varying sizes, the smallest the size of a child’s fist, the largest about a foot tall.
“What the hell is it?” Raven wondered aloud as she approached the pendulum. She shone her light up and down the mottled gray shaft. It looked to her like the interior mechanism of a huge grandfather clock. She stepped nearer, and reached up to touch the pendulum bob with her fingers.
“Don’t do that, Miss Dunstan.”
They turned toward the voice. In the chamber’s entrance stood Edwin Bodane, holding a flashlight. Droplets of rain glistened on his cap and his long black raincoat. His light moved from Raven to New, and he smiled faintly, the hollows deep and dark beneath his eyes and jutting cheekbones. “Welcome to the Lodge, Master Newlan.”