“But you’re a doctor.” There was a faint quaver in her voice. Her eyes were getting glassy, like a madwoman’s stare. “A specialist. You should be able to do something.” She flinched when Boone clacked ice cubes into his glass.
“The tranquilizers have helped him rest, and the painkillers have had some effect, too. Mrs. Reynolds is a fine nurse. Our research on the tissue samples is going to continue. But I can’t do very much more for him unless he consents to enter a hospital.”
“Walen’s never been inside a hospital in his life.” Her face was stricken. “Publicity. There would be…such awful publicity.”
Dr. Francis frowned. “I think publicity should be the least of your concerns. Your husband is dying. I can’t make it any clearer; I cannot adequately treat him up in that room.”
“Could you cure him if he was to go to a hospital?” Boone asked, stirring his Scotch with a finger.
“I can’t promise that. But we could run more thorough tests on him, and take more tissue samples. We’d be better able to study the degenerative process.”
“Use him like a guinea pig, y’mean?” Boone took a quick slug of his drink.
Rix saw the frustration in the doctor’s eyes, and a hint of red surfaced across the older man’s cheeks. “How can you treat something, young man, if you don’t know a damned thing about it? As I understand, the physicians who’ve attended other generations of your family were just as puzzled as I am. Why does it occur only in your family? Why does it begin almost overnight, when the subject is in otherwise perfect health? Why is the nervous system superhumanly enhanced while the other bodily functions crash-dive? In the past, your family prohibited autopsies as well.” He glanced quickly at Margaret, but she was too dazed to react. “If we ever hope to cure this thing, we’ve got to first understand it. If that means making your father into a ‘guinea pig,’ is that such a terrible thing?”
“The press would tear that hospital apart, lookin’ for him,” Boone said.
“Walen’s always been so healthy,” Margaret said in a soft, feeble voice. She looked at Dr. Francis, but was staring right through him. “He’s never been sick before. Never. Even when he cuts himself shaving, the wound is gone the next day. I’ve never seen him bleed more than a drop or two. Once, when we were first married, Walen took me to the stables to show off a new Arabian stallion. The horse threw him, and he…he landed on the back of his head. I’ll never forget the sound of his skull hitting the ground. I thought his neck was broken…but then Walen stood up, and he was just fine. He doesn’t get hurt, and he’s never been sick before.”
“He’s sick now,” Dr. Francis said. “I can’t help him if he won’t go to a hospital.”
She shook her head. Her vision cleared, and her mouth became a firm, hard line. “No. My husband doesn’t want to leave Usherland. The publicity would be terrible for the whole family. Bring your equipment here. Bring your entire hospital staff. But Walen has made it clear he won’t leave the estate.”
Dr. Francis looked at Boone and Rix. “How about you two? Would you enter a hospital for tests?”
“What for?” Boone asked nervously.
“Blood and tissue samples.”
Boone downed his Scotch with one quick, jerky movement. “Listen, doc, I’ve never had a sick day in my life. Never set foot in a hospital and never intend to.”
“What about you?” Dr. Francis turned to Rix.
“I’m not too keen on hospitals, either. Anyway, I’ll be leaving here in a few days.” He felt his mother glance at him.
The doctor sighed, shook his head, and rose from his chair. “I don’t think you people fully understand what’s at stake here. We’re not only talking about Walen Usher’s life. We’re talking about yours, and about those of the children who come after you.”
“My husband is your patient,” Margaret said. “Not my sons.”
“Your sons will be, Mrs. Usher,” he replied firmly. “Sooner or later, they will be.”
“I’m very tired now. Will one of you boys show Dr. Francis to the door, please?”
Boone busied himself by pouring a second drink. Rix escorted the doctor out of the living room, along the corridor, and to the entrance foyer.
“How long does my father have?” Rix asked him in a guarded voice at the front door.
“His bodily systems may shut down within a week. Two weeks at the most.” When Rix didn’t respond, Dr. Francis said, “Do you want to die like that? Odds are you will, you know. It’s a grim fact you’re going to have to face. In the meantime, what are you going to do about it?”
Hearing a stranger tell him how long his father had to live had numbed Rix. “I don’t know,” he said dully.
“Listen to me. I’m staying at the Sheraton Hotel in Asheville, near the medical center. If you change your mind about those tests, will you give me a call?”
Rix nodded, though his mind was made up. Walen had impressed upon him and Boone at an early age that hospitals were full of quacks who experimented on dying patients. As far as Rix knew, Walen had never even taken prescription drugs.
Dr. Francis left the Gatehouse and walked down to his Cadillac, and Rix closed the Gatehouse door behind him.
When he returned to the living room, he found Boone alone, nursing his drink in a chair before the fireplace. “It’s shit, ain’t it?” Boone commented. “A real heap of shit.”
Rix poured himself a bourbon, added ice cubes, and swallowed enough to make his throat burn.
“What’s wrong with you? So happy you can’t talk?”
“Meaning what?”
“Meanin’ just what I said. This should be your happy day, Rixy. The doc says there ain’t a shred of hope to pull Daddy through this thing. That should put a real glow in your heart.”
“Knock it off.”
“It ain’t no secret that you’ve always hated Daddy,” Boone said sharply. “And I know the real reason you’ve come home, too. You want some of that money in your claws, don’t you?”
“Are you talking to the mirror?”
Boone stood up, and Rix sensed that he was in a dangerous mood. A lock of hair had fallen untidily over his forehead, and his face was ruddy with anger and alcohol. “You don’t care about Daddy! You’re just perched on a limb, waitin’ for him to die!” He advanced a few steps. “I oughta throw you out that goddamned window!”
Rix knew his brother was looking for a punching bag. In the silence that stretched between them, Rix heard the telephone begin to ring out in the corridor. “You invited me here, remember?” Rix asked calmly.
“I didn’t invite you! Momma sent me lookin’ for you! Hell, I didn’t really think you’d show your face around here a—” There was a knock at the door, and Boone shouted, “What the hell is it?”
A scared maid, the same young black woman who’d met Rix at the front door yesterday, peered inside. “Mr. Usher, suh? There’s a woman named Dunstan on the telephone. She say she’s callin’ from the Foxton Democrat, suh.”
Boone’s face contorted with rage. “Hang up in her fucking face!” he roared. “Don’t you have a lick of sense in your head?”
The maid disappeared like a rabbit down a hole.
“Idiot!” Boone muttered. He drank the rest of his Scotch, scowled, and lumbered toward the decanters again. “Move out of my way,” he told Rix, who stepped aside to let him pass.
“Mind telling me what’s going on? Who’s the woman on the phone?”
“A nosy little bitch from that rag in Foxton, that’s who.”
“Is she after a story?”
Boone snorted. “I don’t know what she’s after, but she ain’t gonna get it from me! If it ain’t her callin’ here, it’s her father, old Wheeler Dunstan. That bastard should’ve been thrown into a nuthouse years ago!” Boone poured his glass full, this time not bothering with the ice. Some of his steam had been vented at the maid, but anger still hung around him like noxious fumes.
“Wheeler Dunstan?” That name rang a be
ll. “Doesn’t he own the Democrat?”
“Yeah, owns it. Writes in it. Publishes it. Wipes his ass with it too, I guess, like everybody else in the county.”
“I didn’t know he had a daughter.”
“Bitch has been away, in Memphis or somewhere. Wish it had been the moon. Daddy said nobody was to talk to any newspaper, ’specially not the Democrat. We keep changin’ our number, and it’s unlisted anyway, but somehow they keep findin’ out what it is. Wait a minute.” He focused his bleary eyes on Rix. “I thought you knew by now. About the book. Don’t you?”
“No. What book?”
“What book? Jesus Christ in a sidecar! That crazy Dunstan bastard is writin’ a book about us, Rixy! About the Usher family! He’s been workin’ on the damned thing for years!”
Rix’s glass fell to the carpet.
“Dropped your glass, stupid,” Boone said.
“I…didn’t know about this.” Rix’s tongue felt like a plate of lead jammed into his mouth.
“Hell, yes! Bastard’s diggin’ up all kind of dirt about us. Used to call all hours of the day and night, till Daddy sent a lawyer to see him. That settled his dust some, but Dunstan told the lawyer we were public figures, and Daddy couldn’t legally stop him from writin’ that book. Ain’t that a hell of a note?”
“Who knows about this besides Walen?”
“Everybody. Except you, until now. Well, why should you? You’ve been gone too long.”
“Is…this book finished yet?”
“No, not yet. Daddy was puttin’ together a court case when he got sick. Anyway, Daddy thinks the book’ll never get finished. How’s old Dunstan gonna research the thing, when all the family records and stuff are down in the Lodge’s basement? Except for what Daddy brought to the Gatehouse, I mean, and no way in hell Dunstan’s gonna get to those. So Daddy figures that sooner or later he’ll give it up.” He put down another few swallows of alcohol, and his eyes watered. “Edwin went over to Dunstan’s house, tried to see the manuscript. Dunstan wouldn’t show it to him. Daddy thinks the old bastard’s probably given up on it and chucked what he had in the trash.”
“If that’s true, why’s his daughter still calling the house?”
“Who knows? Daddy said not to talk to her, to hang up in her face. That’s just what I do.”
Rix picked up his glass and returned it to the sideboard. He felt unsteady, weak, and a tense laugh kept trying to escape through his teeth. Cass hadn’t told him about this when he’d mentioned his idea to her. Why? Because she feared he might collaborate with Wheeler Dunstan? Smuggle secrets to the enemy camp? “How long has this been going on?” he asked.
“Seems like forever. I guess it’s been about six years. That’s when Dunstan called the first time. He wanted to meet with Daddy and discuss the idea. Daddy thought he was a first-class fool, and told him so.”
“Six years?” Rix repeated incredulously. For six years an outsider had been probing the Usher lineage? How had Dunstan come up with the idea to begin with? What had made him think he could write such a book? And—most important—how far had he gotten with his research?
“You look sick,” Boone said. “You’re not fixin’ to have an attack, are you?”
He didn’t think so; his head was clear, and there was no pain. His stomach, however, had sunk down to the level of his kneecaps. “No.”
“If you are, go throw up somewhere else. I’m gonna sit in here and get drunk.”
Rix left the living room and went upstairs. He closed the door and slid a chair against it to keep Puddin’ from wandering in, and then he lay down on his back on the bed. He could smell the odor of Walen’s decay in the room, permeating his hair and clothes. In a frenzy, he suddenly jumped up and tore his clothes off, then turned the bathroom’s shower on and stepped into the cleansing flood.
He was horrified to realize, as he dried himself off, that his father’s reek had settled into the pores of his skin.
11
NIGHT HAD DESCENDED OVER Usherland, and with it the wind had risen, sweeping down from the mountains and rattling the Gatehouse windows in their frames.
It was almost midnight when Rix left his bedroom, still clad in the suit he’d worn to dinner, and went downstairs. The corridor lights were on, pools of shadow standing around them like ink puddles. Wind whined around the house with the sound of angry hornets. Rix reached into his pocket and brought out the library key.
He went through the game room and the gentlemen’s smoking room and stopped at the library door. The key fit easily into the lock, but the sound of the lock disengaging seemed loud enough to make him wince. As he stepped into the library and switched on the lights, the grandfather clock in the smoking room chimed the quarter hour.
It was one of the largest rooms in the house, its walls lined with book-packed shelves. On the hardwood floor lay a magnificent black and crimson Oriental rug, and from the high, oak-beamed ceiling hung a large wrought-iron chandelier. The library was furnished with several Black Angus-hide easy chairs, a black leather couch, an ornately carved walnut writing desk, and a worktable with a chair and green-shaded high-intensity lamp. Above a black marble fireplace hung the Usher coat of arms: three silver lions on a sable field, separated from one another by red diagonal bands called bendlets.
The room was permeated with the musty aroma of history. On the walls between the bookshelves hung oil portraits of the past masters of Usherland. Rix’s grandfather—stocky, athletic Erik Usher—sat astride a beautiful chestnut stallion with the Lodge at his back. His reddish blond hair was pomaded and parted in the middle, his small dark eyes keen behind wire-rimmed spectacles, his mustache neatly trimmed. Across his knees lay the lion-headed cane.
Erik’s father, Ludlow Usher, was blond and frail in the next portrait. He was depicted standing in a shadowy room, staring out one of the Lodge’s windows toward the forest. He wore a black suit, and most of his pale, sharply chiseled face was shrouded in shadow as well. Behind him, a shard of light glinted off the pendulum of a grandfather clock much like the one in the smoking room. Ludlow was supporting himself on the lion-headed cane.
The following portrait showed Aram Usher, Ludlow’s father. Aram was youthful and vigorous, his hair a mass of sandy blond curls, his lean and handsome face almost radiating light. He wore a gunbelt with two gold pistols, and behind him lay a phantasmagoric scene of thundering locomotives, stampeding horses, wild Indians, and flame-snorting buffalos. The lion-headed cane was propped gallantly against his right shoulder.
Hudson Usher, dour and silver-bearded, glowered down at Rix from his gray-tinted picture. His eyes were Rix’s metallic shade of pewter, and they held a power that crackled over the generations. He sat in a high-backed, thronelike chair with a scarlet cushion. His right hand was clenched firmly around the lion-headed cane, and his gaze challenged anyone to take it away.
Rix turned to regard the most recent portrait, hanging across the room from Erik’s. Walen Usher, broad-shouldered, aristocratically handsome, with wavy reddish blond hair, was dressed in a gray suit and vest. Behind him lay the Lodge—grown dramatically since Erik’s portrait—and the blue peaks of surrounding mountains. He gripped the lion-headed cane with both hands, clutching it close to his body.
The next space was reserved for Usherland’s new master. Boone would want to be captured in riding silks on a racehorse, Rix mused; he’d probably have that damned cane clenched between his teeth. But what if it was Katt, there on the wall? He could imagine the old bones and mummy dust out in the Usher cemetery writhing with indignation.
Examples of Usher weaponry also decorated the library walls: the Usher 1854 Buffalo Rifle; the 1886 Mark III revolver, which had been adopted by the Chinese navy; the 1900 recoil-operated cavalry pistol; and others, including the Enforcer, a seven-shot, .455-caliber revolver of 1902, used by police officers from Chicago to Hong Kong. The Enforcer could blow a man’s head off at ten yards, and was used by the British as a field pistol during World War I.
Several cardboard boxes lay stacked around the worktable. Rix looked into one of them, and found a hodgepodge: yellowed letters wrapped in rubber bands, bundles of bills and checks, what looked like old ledgers and journals—most of them tainted with grayish green streaks of mildew. He picked up a brown leatherbound book, and as he lifted it from the box, old photographs drifted out and to the floor like dead leaves.
They were sepia-toned pictures of the Lodge. Rix put the photo album aside and bent down to retrieve them. In one, Erik Usher stood in a tweed suit and cap, smiling defiantly at the camera while, in the background, workmen crawled over scaffolds attached to the Lodge. In another, Erik sat on a white horse on the carriage bridge; again, construction was in progress on the massive house behind him. He did not smile with his eyes, Rix noted; they were intense and chilling, fixed on the camera in a haughty, challenging stare. His idea of a smile was apparently to simply crook his thin mouth to one side or the other.
Most of the photographs showed various angles of the Lodge. In many of them, workmen were present as blurred forms on spidery scaffolds. They were expanding the Lodge, Rix realized. The photos depicted a variety of seasons: the full halos of summer trees; the same trees skeletal in winter, with snow on the Lodge’s roofs and smoke trailing from the chimneys; new buds bursting forth in spring. And still the workmen were there, hammers and chisels in hand, hoisting up slabs of granite or marble, building the framework of an even larger house.
Why was Erik building the Lodge bigger? What was the point, when it was already the largest house in the country? Rix looked back at the two pictures of Erik and suddenly realized something was missing.
The cane.
Erik didn’t have the lion’s-head cane in those two pictures.
One of the other photographs caught his eye as he started to return it to the album. It was a long shot of the Lodge, probably taken from the lakeshore. Against the massive gray face of the house was a figure in white, standing on one of the upper balconies of the east wing. A woman, Rix thought as he looked closely. A woman in a long white dress. Who was it? One of Erik’s many mistresses? Walen’s mother?