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I don't believe you. I reported James's talk of the brain stem and the residual soul, as best I could. In these near-death experiences, has a little bit of the soul remained behind?
Perhaps, or maybe these individuals do confront death- they actually do cross over-and yet the soul, whole and entire, is sent back. I don't know.
But whatever the case, you can't simply die by going out of your body, can you If in the Gobi Desert, I had gone up and out of my body, I couldn't have found the gateway, could I It wouldn't have been there. It opens only for the whole soul.
Yes. As far as I know, yes. He paused. Then: Why do you ask me this Do you still dream of dying I don't believe it. You're too desperately fond of being alive.
I've been dead for two centuries, David. What about ghosts The earthbound spirits?
They've failed to find that gateway, even though it opened. Or they refused to go through. Look, we can talk about all this some night in the future, roaming the alleyways of Rio, or wherever you like. The important thing is, you must swear to me not to deal with this sorcerer any longer, if you won't go so far as to follow my suggestion that you put an end to him as soon as you can.
Why are you so afraid of him!
Lestat, you must understand how destructive and vicious this individual can be. You can't give your body over to him! And that is just what you mean to do. Look, if you meant to possess a mortal body for a while, I'd be dead against it, for that is diabolical and unnatural enough! But to give your body to this madman! Ye gods, will you please come here to London Let me talk you out of this. Don't you owe me as much!
David, you investigated him before he became a member of the order, did you not What sort of man is he. . . I mean how did he become this wizard of sorts?
He deceived us with elaborate fabrications and counterfeit records on a scale you wouldn't believe. He loves that sort of connivance. And he's something of a computer genius. Our real investigation took place after he'd gone.
So Where did it all start?
Family was rich, merchant class. Lost its money before the war. Mother was a famous medium, appar
ently quite legitimate and dedicated, and charged a pittance for her services. Everybody in London knew her. I remember hearing of her, long before I was ever interested in that sort of thing. The Talamasca pronounced her genuine on more than one occasion, but she refused to be studied. She was a fragile creature, and very much loved her only son.
Raglan, I said.
Yes, She died of cancer. Terrible pain. Her only daughter became a seamstress, still works for a bridal shop in London. Simply exquisite work. She's deeply grieved over the death of her troublesome brother, but relieved he's gone. I talked to her this morning. She said her brother had been destroyed when he was quite young, by their mother's death.
Understandable, I said.
Father worked almost all his life for Cunard shipping, spending his last years as a cabin steward in first class on the Queen Elizabeth 2. Very proud of his record. Great scandal and disgrace not so many years ago, when James was also hired, thanks to the influence of his father, and promptly robbed one of the passengers of four hundred pounds in cash. Father disowned him, was reinstated by Cunard before he died. Never spoke to his son again.
Ah, the photograph on the ship, I said.
What?
And when you expelled him, he had wanted to sail on that very vessel back to America . . . first class, of course.
He told you that It's possible. I didn't really handle the particulars myself.
Not important, go on. How did he get into the occult?
He was highly educated, spent years at Oxford, though at times he had to live like a pauper. Started dabbling in medium-ship even before his mother died. Didn't come into his own until the fifties, in Paris, where he soon acquired an enormous following, then started bilking his clients in the most crude and obvious ways imaginable, and went to jail.
Same thing happened later in Oslo, more or less. After a series of odd jobs, including very menial work, he started some sort of a spiritualist church, swindled a widow out of her life savings, and was deported. Then Vienna, where he worked as a waiter in a first-class hotel until he became a psychic counselor to the rich within a matter of weeks. Soon a hasty departure. He barely escaped arrest. In Milan, he bilked a member of the old aristocracy out of thousands before he was discovered, and had to leave the city in the middle of the night. His next stop was Berlin, where he was arrested but talked himself out of custody, and then back to London, where he went to jail again.
Ups and downs, I said, remembering his words.
That's always the pattern. He rises from the lowest employment to living in extravagant luxury, running up ludicrous accounts for fine clothing, motorcars, jet excursions here and there, and then it all collapses in the face of his petty crimes, treachery, and betrayal. He can't break the cycle. It always brings him down.
So it seems.
Lestat, there is something positively stupid about this creature. He speaks eight languages, can invade any computer network, and possess other people's bodies long enough to loot their wall safes-he is obsessed with wall safes, by the way, hi an almost erotic fashion!-and yet he plays silly tricks on people and ends up with handcuffs on his wrists! The objects he took from our vaults were nearly impossible for him to sell. He ended up dumping them on the black market for a pittance. He's really something of an arch fool.
I laughed under my breath. The thefts are symbolic, David. This is a creature of compulsion and obsession. It's a game. That's why he cannot hang on to what he steals. It's the process that counts with him, more than anything else.
But, Lestat, it's an endlessly destructive game.
