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They went down the stairs, Michael going first, a little light-headed and thinking maybe he ought to eat. Had to remember to eat. Then he remembered. Someone had given him a big plate of dinner. So he should be perfectly all right.
He went out on the porch and called the guards from the gate. In a moment there were five uniformed security men around him. Yuri told them. No one from the Talamasca. Only Yuri. Aaron Lightner. Yuri showed them his passport. "You know Aaron," he said.
They nodded; they understood.
"Well, we're not letting anybody in here, unless we know that person, you know. We've got the nurses' names on a list."
Michael walked Yuri back out to the gate. The fresh air felt good. It was waking him up.
"I talked my way past them," said Yuri. "I don't want to get them in trouble, but stay on them. Remind them. I never gave them my name."
"I got you," said Michael. He turned and looked up at the window of the master bedroom. On the first night that he had ever seen it candles had been flickering behind the closed blinds. He looked at the window below it, which led to the library, the window through which that thing had almost come.
"I hope you're close. I hope you're coming," he said in a bitter whisper meant only for Lasher, his secret and old friend.
"You have the gun Mona gave you?" Yuri asked.
"Upstairs. How did you know about that?"
"She told me," he said. "Put it in your pocket. Carry it always. You have other reasons." He gestured to a figure in the shadows across Chestnut Street, against the stone wall.
"That is one of the Talamasca," he said.
"Yuri, surely you and Aaron don't really believe these men to be dangerous. They're being devious, I see that. They aren't helping. But dangerous? You're angry, something's happened. But you don't think men from the Talamasca would take human life. Yuri, I did my own investigating of the Talamasca. So did Ryan Mayfair before I married Rowan. The Talamasca is made up of bibliophiles and linguists, medievalists and clerks."
"Nice description. Your words?"
"I don't know. I think so. Seems I said it crossly to Aaron once. But seriously. Lasher is the thing to fear. Lasher is the thing to catch--" He reached into his pocket. "Almost forgot. Take this to Aaron. You can read it if you like. It's a poem. I didn't write it. Make sure he gets this. Not tonight, tomorrow--whenever you see him--will be soon enough. It contradicts what I'm saying, actually, but that's not the point. I just Want him to see it, all of it. Maybe some of it will mean something to him. I don't know."
"All right. I will see him in an hour. I am going back there. But keep the gun near you. See that man? His name is Clement Norgan. Don't speak to him. Don't let him come in."
"You mean don't ask him what the hell he's doing there?"
"Exactly. Don't let him goad you into engaging him in conversation. Just keep an eye."
"All this sounds so Catholic, so Talamasca," said Michael. "Don't engage the Devil in conversation; do not converse with the evil spirit."
Yuri shrugged, with a small bit of a smile. He looked off into the dark. His eyes fixed on the distant figure of Clement Norgan. Michael could scarcely make it out. There was a time when he could have seen it clearly, but now his night vision wasn't so good. He knew it was a man there. And it crossed his mind that somewhere out here in this soft, gentle darkness, somewhere Lasher could be standing, watching, waiting.
But for what?
"What will you do now, Yuri?" asked Michael. "Aaron says they've kicked you both out."
"Hmmm, I don't know," said Yuri. The smile broadened. "It's nice to realize that. I can do things. I can...do something completely new. I hadn't thought of it before." Then his face darkened. "But I have a destiny," he said softly.
"What is it?"
"To discover why all this happened with the Talamasca. To discover...who made what decision when. Don't tell me. It sounds very governmental. Central Intelligence, that sort of thing. Tonight I was at the house of Mona Mayfair, using her computer. I tried to reach the Motherhouse archives. Every code was blocked. Imagine changing so many codes, just to defeat me. Maybe it is always done. But never did anyone change a code while I was there. No, it's crazy."
Michael nodded. For him, things were really simple. He was going to kill the thing. But why explain? "Tell Aaron I'm sorry I couldn't be there for the wedding. I wanted to be."
"Yes, he knows. Be careful. Watch. And listen. Two enemies, remember?"
And with that Yuri stepped back and then darted away. He was across Chestnut Street with a few large strides, and then gone down First, without so much as a sideways glance at Norgan.
Michael went back up the steps. He summoned the guard nearest the door.
"That man over there, keep an eye on him," said Michael. "Oh, he's OK. He's a private detective hired by the family."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. Showed us his identification earlier."
"I don't think so," said Michael. "Yuri knew him. He's not a private detective. Did any of the family tell you they had hired him to be here?"
The guard was flustered. "No. He showed me his identification. You're right. It should have come from Ryan or Pierce Mayfair."
"You better believe it."
Michael was about to say, "Call him." He was about to walk down the steps and go over to the man himself. Then he remembered that strange religious admonition, "Do not engage him in conversation."
"You know the next shift?" asked Michael. "Their names, their faces?"
"Yes, all of them. And the guys out back. I know who's coming at three tomorrow afternoon and at midnight tomorrow night. Got all those names. I should have questioned this guy. Look, let me run that bastard out of here. He said he was working for the Mayfair family."
"No, just watch him. Maybe Ryan did hire him. Maybe Ryan forgot to tell you and me. Just watch him, watch him and anybody like him, and don't let anyone in without talking to me."
"Yes, sir."
Michael went back inside, shutting the big door behind him. For a moment he stood against it, looking down the narrow hallway, at the old familiar sight of the high keyhole door to the dining room, and the bit of colored mural beyond.
"What's going to happen, Julien? How is it going to work itself out?"
Tomorrow the family would convene in the dining room to discuss this very question. If the man had not surfaced, what should they do? What was their obligation to others? How should it be handled?
"We will deal with the specifics," Ryan had said, "with what we know, as corporate lawyers are bound to do. This man abducted and abused Rowan. That is all the various law enforcement agencies need to be told."
Michael smiled. He started the slow climb up the long flight of stairs. Don't count them, don't think about it, don't think about a twinge in your chest, or a swimming feeling in your head.
It was going to be fun working with "law enforcement agencies," trying to keep all this secret. Ah, Lord, would the papers have a field day. He suspected the simplest angle would be some cheap statement as to the man's being a "Satanist," a member of a violent and dangerous "cult."
And then he thought of that shining spirit, "the man" whom he had once seen behind the crib at Christmas, and staring at him in the garden below. He thought of that radiant countenance.
What's it like, Lasher, to be lost in the flesh and to have the whole world looking for you? Like being a needle in a haystack, instead of such a powerful ghost? In this day and age, they find needles in haystacks. And you are a bit more like the family emerald, lost in a box of jewels. Not so hard to see you, snatch you, snare you, keep you, the way no one could have ever done when you were Julien's daemon or fiend.
He stopped at the door of the bedroom. All was as he had left it. Hamilton reading. The nurse with her chart. The candles giving off the sweet good odor of expensive wax, and the shadow of the Virgin's statue dancing behind them, the shiver of the shadow thrown across Rowan's face and giving it a false life.
He was about to resume his old position when he spied a movement in the bedroom at the end of the hall. Must be the other nurse, he thought, but he didn't like it, and he went down the hall to check.
For one moment, he couldn't make out what he was seeing--a tall gray-haired woman in a flannel gown. Sunken cheeks, bright eyes, a high forehead. Her white hair was loose over her shoulders. Her gown hung to her bare feet. The twinge in his chest became a pain.
"It's Cecilia," she said mercifully, patiently. "I know. Some of us Mayfairs were born looking like ghosts. I'll come in and sit with her if you like. I've just slept a good eight hours. Why don't you he down here for a little while?"
He shook his head. He felt so foolish and so badly shaken. And he hoped to God he hadn't hurt her feelings!
He went back in to take up the vigil as before. Rowan, my Rowan.
"What's that spot on her gown?" he asked the nurse.
"Oh, must be a little water," said the nurse, pressing a dry washcloth to Rowan's breast. "I was wiping her face and moistening her lips. Do you want me to massage her now, just move her arms, keep them flexible?"
"Yes, do it. Do anything and everything. Do it whenever you get bored. If she shows the slightest..."
"Of course."
He sat down and closed his eyes. He was drifting. Julien said something to him, but he was just remembering, the long story, the image of Marie Claudette with her six fingers. Six fingers on the left hand. Rowan had had beautiful and perfect hands. Hands of a surgeon.
What if she had done what Carlotta Mayfair wanted? What her mother had wanted? What if she had never come home?
He awoke with a start. The nurse was lifting Rowan's right leg, carefully, gently, smoothing the lotion over the skin. Look how thin, how worn. "This will keep her from getting drop foot. We have to do it regularly. You want to remind the others. I'll write it on the chart. But you remember."
"I will," he said.
"She must have been a beautiful woman," said the nurse, shaking her head.
