A JAGGED SPEAR OF LIGHTNING FLASHED OVER THE MOUNTAINS AS Rix pulled the Thunderbird up in front of Wheeler Dunstan's house. In the air was the chlorine odor of ozone, and dust whirled up from a distant field.
Rix walked up the front steps and pressed the door buzzer. He carried the notebook and the newspaper account of Cynthia Usher's death under his arm. As he waited, Rix glanced uneasily down Dunstan's gravel driveway. He'd passed a brown van that was pulled off the road, about twenty yards from the entrance to the driveway, and he recalled seeing the same van a few days before. Was Dunstan's house being watched? he wondered, scanning the woods. If so, whoever it was had seen him in a highly visible Usher vehicle. Another concern nagged at him as well. When he'd gone out to the garage, he'd seen that Katt's car was missing. Had she gone to Asheville to score more heroin? Boone's Ferrari had been gone, too, but Rix figured he was sleeping off a bad night at the country club. He pressed the buzzer again, then turned to watch the woods at his back. Anyone spying certainly had a clear view of him.
"Who is it?" Dunstan asked from the other side of the door.
"Rix Usher."
Locks clicked open. Dunstan, the corncob pipe clamped firmly between his teeth, guided his chair backward to allow Rix entry. Rix stepped in and closed the door behind him.
"Lock it," Dunstan said, and Rix did. "Sorry it took me so long to get up here. I been workin' since way before daylight." He looked strained, with dark circles beneath his eyes. He glanced at the items Rix held. "What've you got?"
"First this." Rix handed him the fragile newspaper pages. "It's an account of Cynthia's death in Chicago."
Dunstan took his chair into the parlor, where the light was better, and Rix followed. The last red embers of a fire glowed brightly in the hearth. "Okay," he said when he'd finished reading, "this clears up one question. What about the scepter?"
Rix sat down and told him the story that Edwin had related. Dunstan listened intently, blue whorls of smoke curling above his head. When Rix had finished, Dunstan's flinty stare was impassive. "I need documents to prove all that," he said.
"Edwin says the clippings are in the Lodge's library."
"Don't do me much good there. Can you get 'em for me?"
"Edwin might be able to. I'll ask him." He offered Dunstan the black notebook. "I wanted you to look at this, too."
He opened it and slowly paged through it, his brow furrowing. "This come from the Lodge's library? What's all this figurin' mean?"
"I hoped you'd be able to tell me."
"Nope. Sorry. What're these drawin's here?" He tapped the page of sketches.
"I think they're clock pendulums. But why they're in that book, and what they mean, I don't know."
"Ludlow was always interested in clocks," Dunstan mused. "Kept 'em around him all the time. Could be this is one of his notebooks, but I can't make any sense out of this arithmetic or the music notes." He placed the book on his lap and looked up at Rix. "You know that Ludlow was an inventor. Supposedly he was always workin' on somethin' down in that workshop of his in the Lodge. Could be this is one of his projects."
"You mean a weapon of some kind?"
"Who can say? I've heard that visitors to Usherland sometimes saw sparks jumpin' off those lightnin' rods on the roof. Ludlow locked himself in his workshop for days at a time. There's no tellin' what he was up to, but more than likely it had somethin' to do with the business."
Rix took the notebook back from Dunstan and examined the sketches again.
"If it's a weapon," Dunstan said, "what would music have to do with it?"
"I don't know," Rix replied - but he was already forming a theory. Shann had been a musical prodigy. The Usher Concerto had affected people in a way that drove them to suicide like lemmings. When Ludlow had gone to visit her in New Orleans, had he been trying to tap into Shann's musical ability for the Pendulum project? Was that why he'd wanted her to renounce the convent and return to Usherland? There was no way to find out unless he learned what Pendulum was. "Yesterday," Rix said, "you mentioned another question you have about my family. You said it was an important question. I'd like to hear it."
Dunstan rolled his chair to the hearth and used a poker to probe at the remaining bits of charred wood. Then he returned the poker to its stand with the other fireplace tools and paused thoughtfully before answering. He swung the chair around to face Rix. "I saw Walen before your grandfather died. He was handsome, full of energy. Looked like he could take on the world with one hand tied behind his back." He struck a match and relit his pipe. "A month after Erik died, Walen's limo had a flat tire a block away from the Democrat office. I moseyed out to take a look, while Edwin Bodane used a pay phone to call for another car. I got one glimpse of Walen before he pulled the curtain across his window." He looked long and hard at Rix. "It wasn't the same man."
Rix frowned. "What do you mean? It wasn't Walen?"
"Oh, it was Walen, all right. But an old, broken-down Walen. I'll never forget his eyes - he looked like he'd had a visit from the Devil himself. He had that cane in his hand; I remember that, too. But I've never seen such a change in a man in so short a time."
"I suppose Erik's death affected him."
"Why should it? From what I understand, Walen wasn't a doting son. Now listen to this: Erik had a nervous breakdown on the night of Ludlow's death. It was during one of Erik's fancy parties. Ludlow called him up to the Quiet Room. A couple of hours later, some of the guests heard hell breakin' loose in Erik's study. They got in and found Erik havin' a fit - smashin' furniture, throwin' things against the walls. It took four or five men to hold him down till somebody could call a doctor. Then Erik locked himself away for a month." Dunstan lifted his eyebrows quizzically. "Why?" he asked. "Erik hated Ludlow. Why would Ludlow's death drive him crazy?"
"It shouldn't have," Rix said. "If anything, I'd think Erik would've danced with joy."
"Right. Erik did everything he could to hurry along his father's death. And Walen was no better a son; he wouldn't have lifted a finger to help Erik. Why, then, did both of them react the way they did?"
"I don't know."
"Neither do I. Nor does anybody else. But I'll tell you what I think." Dunstan leaned forward, his eyes bright blue and intense. "Somethin' passed from father to son at the last minute.
Maybe some kind of information, or some responsibility that neither Erik nor Walen figured on. I think Ludlow told Erik somethin' in that Quiet Room, right before he died, that almost drove Erik insane."
"And Erik passed whatever it was to Walen before he died?"
"Yes. Which is why Walen's health broke right after his father died. Both Erik and Walen were okay again, with the passage of time. Maybe the shock of it wore off, or they just went on because they had no choice. My question is, what's passed from father to son, just before the patriarch dies?"
"The cane," Rix said. It seemed an obvious answer.
"No, it's more than that. The cane's no surprise. I think this is somethin' that's hidden until the last minute - some responsibility that needs to be carried on from one generation to the next. I've asked Edwin about it, but of course he won't say. He just brings the documents, leaves 'em, and then picks 'em up again when I'm through." He folded his hands before him. "The answer may be in the Lodge's library. I need to find it."
"I can't go into the Lodge, not after what happened to me when I was a boy."
"But you could go in with Edwin, couldn't you? He could take you down to that library."
Rix shrugged. The idea of entering the Lodge, even with Edwin, made his stomach ache with dread. "I don't know. But what would I be looking for?"
"Business records. Property titles. Anything on Hudson Usher. Maybe something about the ancestors in Wales. Aram's marriage to Shann's mother, in San Francisco. He met her when he went there to find his Aunt Madeline, against Hudson's strict orders. Maybe documents on the Pennsylvania estate, and Roderick's death. It's supposed to be an Usher museum down there, and if there's an answer to the question in any written form - that's most likely where it'll be."
Rix ran his hand over the notebook's moldy cover. From outside, the boom of thunder sounded nearer. If he did find the courage to enter the Lodge again, he told himself, it would have to be for a damned good reason. "I want to see your manuscript now," he said.
"Not yet. I'll show it to you when you bring me what I want to see."
Rix looked up into the other man's stem, set expression. He realized suddenly, with a twist of anger in his guts, that Wheeler Dunstan was playing with him, using him as an errand boy with no intention of letting him share in the book. "Now," Rix demanded. "I've already risked enough for you. I could search through that library for a year and never find what you're looking for! If my father finds out what I'm doing, he'll - "
"Disinherit you?" Dunstan asked slyly. "I thought you had no interest in the business."
Rix winced inwardly at the sarcasm in Dunstan's voice, and now he damned himself for ever getting involved with the man. Even if he did hope, deep in his soul, that he might get a sizable chunk of the Usher fortune, he'd be finished if the house was being watched. He had to salvage something out of the wreckage! "Now you listen to me," he said coldly. "I've proven to you that I can help you write this book. I think I deserve to read the manuscript."
"No. I'm not letting anyone see it until it's finished."
"You don't know what I've put on the line by being here, damn it!" Rix rose angrily from his chair. "I'm not working for you! If you want me to go in the Lodge and do your dirty work for you, you're going to have to show me what you've written already! I won't risk anything more until I see the manuscript for myself!"
Dunstan opened his mouth to speak again - and then his face seemed to freeze, his eyes glazing over as if he were staring right through Rix. One hand slowly came up and took the pipe from between his teeth. And in a strange, eerily emotionless voice, Dunstan said, "I won't show my book to anyone."
"There won't be a book worth publishing if you don't let me help you!" Rix snapped. "Who's going to bring you documents after Edwin leaves?"
Dunstan's face remained masklike. "I won't show my book to anyone," he repeated.
Rix was angry enough to strike him, but the man seemed to be in some kind of trance. What the hell's wrong with him? Rix thought. Raven had never seen the manuscript, either. Why not? What was Dunstan trying to conceal? Rix glanced at Dunstan's shirt pocket, where he kept his office key with the little typewriter charm on it. Rix walked purposefully toward the man, who seemed not to even acknowledge his presence, then stepped quickly behind the chair and thrust his hand into Dunstan's pocket. His fingers closed around the typewriter charm - but as he brought his hand out, Dunstan suddenly gripped it with a strength that almost crushed Rix's knuckles. Rix's hand opened, and the key ring hit the armrest and fell to the floor. Before
Dunstan could swivel his chair around, Rix retrieved the key ring. "All right, damn you!" Rix said fiercely. "Now I'll see it for myself!" He strode toward the corridor and the door to the basement.
Thunder crashed near the house. Rix heard the clang of metal against metal, and twisted around.
Dunstan was coming at him in the wheelchair, the fireplace poker raised in his hand. Still, Dunstan's face was remote, expressionless. He was moving like a machine on wheels.
"Come on!" Rix said incredulously. "What the hell do you think you're - "
The poker flashed downward in a vicious arc. Rix reacted too slowly, and was struck hard on the shoulder. Pain coursed through his arm, and he staggered backward.
Dunstan swung again. Rix ducked to one side, and the poker narrowly missed his skull.
"Stop it!" Rix shouted. The old man had lost his mind! Before Dunstan could lift the poker again, Rix grasped the chair's armrests to shove him across the floor - but Dunstan's free hand clamped around his wrist like an iron manacle.
The dead eyes stared up into Rix's face. "I won't show my book to anyone," he repeated, in a hoarse and strangled voice. He brought the poker up for another blow. Rix grabbed at it, throwing his weight against the side of the chair. It tipped over, spilling Wheeler Dunstan onto the floor. Lifting himself on his powerful forearms, Dunstan began to drag himself after Rix.
Stunned, Rix retreated before him. Dunstan pulled himself forward, his face still set and glistening with sweat. Rix backed away, into the corridor. The door to the basement was only a few feet away. He went through it and down the ramp as Dunstan gave a guttural cry.
In the clutter of Dunstan's office, Rix realized the original manuscript could be hidden anywhere. There was no way to find it without tearing the place apart - but the word processor was still on, and displayed on the green-glowing screen was what Dunstan had been writing before Rix had interrupted him.
Rix approached the desk, shoving aside a stack of papers to get a good look.
What he saw brought a dazed half-laugh, half-moan from his throat.
There was one paragraph: Time will tell the tale. There will always be war, and someone will always make the weapons.
Time will tell the tale. The Usher name is a deterrent to war. Time will tell the tale.
The paragraph was repeated over and over, in various combinations of sentences. With a trembling hand, Rix pressed the terminal's key that scrolled the screen down. It obeyed, and Rix read the essence of the Usher family history that Dunstan had been writing for six years.
The Usher name is a deterrent to war. Time will tell the tale. There will always be war, and someone will always make the weapons. Time will tell the tale.
It went on and on, page after page.
"Oh Jesus," Rix whispered.
There was no book. There had never been a book. Wheeler Dunstan was insane. Had he come down here, day after day for six years, and thought he was writing a complete manuscript?
There will always be war, and someone will always make the weapons. Time will tell the tale -
Rix ran from the basement and up the ramp, his heart hammering so loudly he could hardly think. In the parlor, the wheelchair still lay on its side, but the man had crawled away. The poker was on the floor, near the notebook Rix had dropped. He picked the book up. Outside, thunder crashed and rain began to slam against the roof. Within seconds, a downpour started that was so dense he couldn't see his car through the bay windows.
As Rix neared the front door, he saw Dunstan lying on his face on the floor, his arms curled beneath his body. To leave the house, Rix would have to pass him. Dunstan's body suddenly trembled, and then he slowly turned his face toward Rix.
Dunstan's eyes had rolled back in his head, showing only the bloodshot whites. Sweat gleamed on his pallid cheeks and forehead. His mouth gasped for air, then formed barely intelligible words: "I won't . . . show my book . . . to anyone."
He brought his right hand up from under his body. In it was an Usher .357 Commando.
Rix leaped to one side as the gun went off. A fist-sized hole spouted shards of wood from the parlor wall.
Rix crouched on the floor behind the meager protection of a chair, the fireplace at his back. The Commando held five more bullets. Over the drumming of the rain, Rix heard Dunstan dragging himself across the floor. He tensed to run for the corridor, but the fallen wheelchair was in the way. If he tripped over it, Dunstan could put a shot right through his back. He looked wildly around for something with which to protect himself. The fireplace shovel leaned against the health. Rix glanced at the red embers, then took the shovel and scooped up ashes and fragments of smoking wood.
Rix waited, listening to the slow slide of Dunstan's body. He would get only one chance; if he didn't calculate it exactly, Dunstan would blow him away.
His pores leaked cold sweat; still he waited, trying to visualize how and where Dunstan would be lying. He heard the man shove aside a piece of furniture; a lamp clattered to the floor.
Wait, he told himself. Lightning flashed outside the windows, followed almost at once by a roll of thunder that shook the house.
The sound of Dunstan's dragging body stopped.
And Rix thought: Now!
With a burst of adrenaline, he shoved the chair forward with his shoulder. Across the room, Dunstan fired; the bullet tore through the fabric inches from Rix's face, spraying him with smoking cotton. Before Dunstan could readjust his aim, Rix rose up and flung the embers.
The other man got off a third wild shot as the embers scattered across his face and the front of his shirt. The bullet whined past Rix's head, smashing one of the bay windows. Rain and wind swept into the room. Then Dunstan was writhing on the floor, the embers sizzling on his cheeks and scorching through his shirt.
Rix grasped his wrist and tried to shake the Commando loose. Dunstan's other hand came up, grabbing at Rix's sweater. Rix brought his fist down on the man's elbow - once, twice, and again, as hard as he could strike. Dunstan's fingers opened, and the Commando fell to the floor. Rix picked it up and scrambled away from the man.
"All right," he said huskily. "It's over."
Dunstan stared blankly up at him, red welts across his cheeks and forehead. Then his face collapsed and he began sobbing like a child. Rix couldn't bear to look at him; he emptied the three remaining cartridges from the Commando into his pocket, then put the gun out of Dunstan's reach, atop the mantel.
At the rear of the house, Rix found a telephone and dialed the operator, asking for the sheriffs office. The line crackled and hissed with static. When the telephone was answered, Rix said there had been an accident at the Dunstan house near Taylorville, and hung up as the woman asked his name.
There was nothing more he could do. He thought of calling Raven, but what could he say to her? Sorry, but her father was insane and had tried to kill him, and there had never been a book? His nerves were jangling as he returned to the parlor. Dunstan lay on his side, breathing shallowly, his stare fixed and vacant.
Rix stood over the man, as wind and rain slashed at him through the shattered window. Rage stirred within him, gathered and coiled. He had cooperated with Dunstan for nothing, had risked whatever inheritance he might receive for an Usher history that had never existed.
Dunstan gave a soft, tormented moan. One arm was flung out at his side, the fist tightly closed.
He made a fool of me, Rix seethed. Because of him, I risked everything!
The brown van. If Dunstan's house was being watched by someone that Walen sent, then . . .
Rix's hands clenched at his sides, his nails digging crescent moons into the skin of his palms. And from deep within him, from that dark stranger in himself that he did not know and had denied existed inside his skin, came the urge to kill.
He looked at the gun on the mantel. One shot would do it. The barrel pressed against Dunstan's skull, the man's blood and brains running with the raindrops on the wall. One shot.
- do it now -
Rix looked into his hand. He'd brought the three bullets out of his pocket.
- do it now -
Lightning streaked, hit the earth somewhere close. Thunder filled the house.
Rix held the Commando. He started to slide a bullet into the chamber.
- do it now -
He clicked the cylinder shut. Sweat and rain streamed down his face. The gun felt good in his hand; it felt like power - absolute, unyielding power.
He turned toward Wheeler Dunstan, walked to him, and aimed the gun downward at his head. One shot. Do it now.
His hand was shaking. A cold rage had taken control of him, yet he seemed detached, as though watching himself from a distance. The dark stranger in his soul whispered urgently for him to squeeze the trigger. This was no longer Raven's father lying on the floor; this was Walen Usher's bitterest enemy, and because of him Rix had put all his faith in a nonexistent book.
He had risked everything to help Dunstan - and now he would be cut off from the Usher fortune without a dime. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Dunstan moaned, and his fist began to open.
In the palm was a silver button. It was one of the buttons from Rix's sweater, and he realized Dunstan had yanked it off when Rix fought for the gun.
A silver button, Rix thought. He tried to think past the whisper that urged him to kill Raven's father. A silver button. Where had he seen -
His head pounded fiercely, and the voice within him shrieked DO IT NOW!
His finger convulsed on the trigger, and at the same time Rix heard his own desperate cry.
The Commando fired, gouging wood from the floor six inches from Dunstan's skull.
Rix turned and, with a shout of anger and revulsion, flung the gun through the broken window.
He picked up the silver button and ran from the house, through the sheets of rain to his car. At the end of the driveway, he saw that the brown van was gone. He sank his foot to the floor, causing the Thunderbird to fishtail dangerously. His hands gripped the wheel hard, and his shame at being so close to murder brought bitter tears to his eyes.
He had almost done something that - for the first time in his life - would have made his father very, very proud.
