WHEN WHEELER DUNSTAN OPENED THE FRONT DOOR, RIX OFFERED him the Baird Retreat's casebook. Dunstan paged carefully through it, taking his own sweet time, and then he motioned Rix inside without a word.
Dunstan put the casebook on a table and began filling his corncob pipe with tobacco. "I had a call from Mr. Bodane this mornin'," he finally .said. "He verified what Raven told me about you, that you're a published writer. Called the library yesterday to see if they had any of Jonathan Strange's books over there. They didn't. So I sent one of the fellas from the Democrat over to the bookstore at Crockett Mall." His wheelchair whirred across the room to a bookshelf, and he showed Rix the paperback copies of Congregation and Fire Fingers. "Read a little bit out of each of them last night. They ain't too bad - but they ain't too good, either."
"Thank you," Rix said dryly.
"So." Dunstan turned the wheelchair around and regarded him thoughtfully through a haze of pipe smoke. "You want to help us with the book, and you figure I'll go for the idea since you're a published writer."
"Something like that."
"This is a project I've been workin' on for a long time. I suppose you could say" - his mouth curved to one side - "that it's a labor of love. Raven and I are a good team. I'm not so sure we need another member."
"Maybe you don't," Rix agreed, "but I've shown you how serious I am about this. I'm taking a hell of a risk by coming here. I had to sneak out after lunch like a thief. I can get you whatever you need from the Gatehouse library. I can help you with the writing. And most important, an Usher name on the cover will give it credibility. Have you thought about that?"
Dunstan didn't reply, but Rix saw his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. He had scored a point, Rix thought. "I brought you the casebook. And I've told you what you wanted to know, haven't I?"
The other man grunted. "I've known about the Baird Retreat for months. I digested that material and returned the book to Mr. Bodane. Sorry, I'm still not sold. I can't figure out exactly why you want to help so badly." His teeth were clamped around the pipe's stem like a bulldog's. "If you think you're gonna waltz in here and get your hands on the manuscript - maybe screw it up, for all I know - you're wrong, my friend."
This was like trying to find a chink in a granite wall. "Edwin trusts me," Rix said, nettled. "Why won't you?"
"Because I'm not the trustin' type."
"Okay, fine. Then what can I do to make you trust me?"
Dunstan pondered the question. He rolled the chair over to the bay window and watched gray-bellied clouds scudding across the sky, then looked at Rix. "Mr. Bodane entered this deal with the stipulation that he supply documents only - no verbal information.
In his own way, I guess he's still bein' loyal to Walen. I admire that. He wouldn't tell me what Walen's condition was, and that's why I had to find out from you. I've got some questions that need answers: things that connect events of Usher history. And only an Usher can give me the answers."
"Try me."
Dunstan motioned toward a chair, and Rix sat down. "Okay. I want to know about the cane. The black cane with the silver lion's-head. Why's it so important to your family? Where'd it come from, and why does every patriarch carry it like some kind of royal scepter?"
"As far as I know, Hudson Usher brought it with him from Wales. Old Malcolm probably carried it, too. I think whoever possesses it is recognized by the family as the head of the estate and the business. There's no secret about that."
"Maybe not," Dunstan said, "but maybe it's more than that, too." He let smoke leak from the corner of his mouth. "The cane wasn't always in your family. It was stolen once, from Aram Usher - your great-great-grandfather - and was lost for almost twenty years. In those twenty years, your family had more than its share of bad luck: Aram was killed in a duel, his son Ludlow was almost killed several times, Ludlow's half-sister, Shann, had a career tragedy, Usherland was overrun by Union troops, and your family's steamboat, railroad, and textile businesses went bust."
This rash of information was startling to Rix. "Are you suggesting there's a connection between all that and the cane?"
"Nope. Just speculatin'. That was probably the most disastrous period of Usher history. The only thing that didn't suffer too much was the armaments business. That rolled in a fortune during the Civil War - especially since Usher Armaments sold rifles, bullets, and artillery pieces to both sides. Old Aram was smart. His heart might've belonged to the South, but he knew the North was gonna clean house."
"Who stole the cane?" Rix asked, intrigued by these new facts of Usher history. "A servant?"
"No. An octoroon gambler from New Orleans named Randolph Tigre. Or at least that was one of his names. I say 'stole' only figuratively. Aram's second wife, Cynthia Cordweiler Usher, gave it to him."
"Why?"
"He was blackmailin' her. She was the widow of Alexander Hamilton Cordweiler, who owned steamboat lines, a network of railroads, and a big chunk of the Chicago stockyards. Cordweiler was sixty-four when he married her; she was eighteen."
"Blackmailing her? What for?"
Dunstan's pipe had gone out, and he took a few seconds to relight it. "Because," he said, "Cynthia Cordweiler Usher - your great-great-grandmother - was a murderess." He smiled faintly at Rix's grim expression. "I can tell you the story, if you want to hear it. I've put together bits and pieces from various sources, and I've had to guess at some of it - from what happened later." He raised his bushy eyebrows. "Well? Got the nerve to hear it, or not?"
"Go ahead," Rix replied.
"Good. It starts in the summer of 1858. Ludlow was about four weeks old. Aram was in Washington on business. If he'd been home, things might've taken a different turn. Anyway, a gentleman caller came to the Lodge. He waited downstairs while a servant took his calling card up to Cynthia's bedroom . . ."
The smoke swirled around Wheeler Dunstan's head as he spoke. Rix listened intently, and imagined that in the blue whorls of smoke were faces - the ghosts of the past, gathering around them in the room. The smoke formed pictures; the Lodge on a sunny summer's day, light streaming through the windows and across the hardwood floors. A lovely, strong-featured woman in bed, with an infant suckling at her breast. And a card in her trembling hand that gave the name of Randolph Tigre.
"Send him away," Cynthia Usher told her maid, a strapping young black woman named Righteous Jordan. "I'm occupied with my son."
"I told him you wasn't gonna see him, ma'am," she said; Righteous stood almost six feet tall and had a stomach as wide as a barrel. "Told him right to his face, but he say it don't matter, that I was to give you his card."
"You have. Now go back downstairs and tell him to - "
"Good morning, Mrs. Usher." It was a soft, silken voice that raised goosebumps on Cynthia's arms. Righteous whirled around indignantly. Randolph Tigre, wearing a natty tan suit and carrying a thin riding crop, was leaning casually in the doorway. His teeth gleamed in his handsome, coffee-and-cream-colored face.
"Lord God!" Righteous tried to block the man's view. "Don't you have no decency?"
"I don't like waiting, so I followed you up here. Mrs. Usher and I are old . . . acquaintances. You can leave us now."
Righteous's cheeks swelled at such impertinence. It was bad enough that this man had talked his way through the front gate - but for him to be standing there while Mrs. Usher was feeding her little baby was downright scandalous. He was smiling like a cat, and Righteous's first impulse was to pick him up and heave him down the stairs. What stopped her from doing so was the fact that he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen; the large topaz stickpin in the center of his black cravat was the exact color of his keen, deepset eyes, and he had a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. The creamy hue of his flesh made Righteous appear, by contrast, to have recently bathed in India ink. He wore tan calfskin gloves, and English riding boots polished to a high, warm luster. To be a free man of color was one thing, Righteous thought, but for him to flaunt himself openly in these troubled times was begging for a beating. "Get yourself out of here while Mrs. Usher arranges herself!" Righteous snapped protectively.
Cynthia had laid the infant down on a silk-brocaded pillow, and now she calmly buttoned her gown to the throat.
"I'm not the coalstove stoker, Missy," Tigre said. His eyes had flashed like warning beacons, and there was a shade of menace in his voice. "Don't use that tone with me. Tell her, Mrs. Usher. We're old friends, aren't we?"
"It's all right," Cynthia said. Righteous looked at her incredulously. "Mr. Tigre and I . . . know each other. You can leave us alone now."
"Ma'am? Leave you alone up here? In your bedchamber?"
"Yes. But I want you to return in a quarter of an hour . . . to escort Mr. Tigre out of the Lodge. Run on, now."
The black woman snorted and stormed out. Randolph Tigre stepped aside as she passed, and gave a hint of a bow. Then he closed the door and turned toward Cynthia Usher with a cool, insolent smile. "Hello, Cindy," he said softly. "You look breathtaking."
"What the hell are you doing here? Are you insane?"
"Now, now, that's not proper language for a lady of leisure, is it?" He strolled around the sumptuous bedroom, his hands exploring the textures of blue velvet, carved mahogany, and Belgian lace. He lifted a jade vase from her dressing table and examined the intricate workmanship. "Exquisite," he murmured. "You're a woman of your word, Cindy. You always vowed you'd own exquisite things someday - and now look at you, mistress of Usherland."
"My husband will be returning shortly. I advise you to - "
Tigre laughed quietly. "No, Cindy. Mr. Aram Usher left for Washington by train yesterday morning. I followed his coach to the station. He's a nice-looking man. But then . . . your head was always turned by a wide pair of shoulders and a tight pair of trousers, wasn't it?" He plucked a hand-painted Japanese fan from its ceramic stand and stretched it open, admiring the colors. "You've struck it rich again, haven't you? First Alexander Cordweiler - and now Aram Usher." Tigre nodded toward the gurgling infant. "His, I assume?"
"You must be out of your mind to set foot on this estate!"
"In fact, I've never been more sane. Don't I look fine?" He showed her his matching topaz cufflinks, and produced a gold pocket watch studded with diamonds. "I was always lucky at cards. The gaming boats that run from New Orleans to St. Louis are packed with sheep who bleat to be sheared. I'm happy to oblige them. Of course . . . sometimes my luck needs a helping hand." He opened his waistcoat and patted the small pistol he carried in a leather holster. "Your husband produces fine guns."
"Either state your business, or get out of my house." Her voice shook and she was speared with shame.
Tigre walked over to the far side of the room, peering out the windows upon the lake. "I have a present for you," he said. He turned and flipped something - a silver coin, sparkling in the sunlight that spilled through the window - onto the bed. It landed at her side. Cynthia reached for it - but her hand froze in midair. Her fingers slowly curled into a fist.
"It's a reminder of the good old days, Cindy. I thought seeing it would please you."
She had recognized the object. How he'd gotten one of them, she didn't know, but her business-honed mind rapidly grasped the situation: the little silver coin could destroy her life.
Tigre came to the foot of the bed. She caught the odors of his pungent cologne and minty brilliantine - old, familiar aromas that, to her horror, made her heart beat faster. She pulled her knees protectively to her chest under the sheet.
"You've missed me, haven't you?" he asked. "Yes. I can tell. I could always read your eyes. That's why we were such a good team. You would entertain the customers with your stories and laughter - and then the judgment of God would fall on their heads. I never missed once with that hammer, did I? But they died happy, Cindy; you needn't fear the fires of hell."
The baby began crying. Cynthia held Ludlow close. "That was a long time ago. I'm not the same woman."
"Of course not. How many millions did you inherit from Cordweiler? Ten? Twenty? Your riverboats are comfortable, I'll say that. I play my best games of poker on the Bayou Moon." Slowly his smile began to fade. A thin sneer replaced it, and Tigre played his fingers over the leather riding crop. "You never answered my letters. I began to have the feeling you didn't want to see me again. After all, I introduced you to Cordweiler . . . or have you forgotten? Tell me something - how did you do it? Rat poison in his cake? Arsenic in his coffee?"
She stared icily at him. Ludlow strained at her bosom.
"No matter," he said, with a curt wave of his hand. "However it was done, you covered your tracks well. Which brings me to another question: When are you going to murder Aram Usher?"
"Get out," she whispered. "Get out of here before I call for the police!"
"Will you? I don't think so. We're the same, deep inside. But hammers aren't your style - yours is the slick word and the wet kiss. I'm tired of waiting for my just due, Cindy." He nodded impatiently toward the infant. "He's hungry. Why don't you take out your tit and feed him?"
She didn't respond. Tigre leaned against the bed's scrolled walnut cornerpost. "I've come to be fed, too. At the first of every month, you're to deliver ten thousand dollars in an envelope to the Andrew Jackson Suite of the Crockett Hotel in Asheville."
"You're insane! I don't have that kind of cash!"
"No?" Tigre reached into his pocket. With a flip of his hand he filled the air with shining silver coins. Cynthia flinched as they fell around her, striking her on the face, hitting the bed and the infant's crib, clattering on the floor. "I have a boxful of those. Ten thousand dollars, every month. I'll even show you how reasonable I can be; this month I'll only expect five thousand dollars. And that handsome cane your husband carries with him."
"That's an heirloom! He even sleeps with it! It would be impossible to - "
"Hush," Tigre; said gently. "I want that cane. I admired it yesterday at the train station. Get it away from him, I don't care how. Fuck him senseless - you were always adept at that." He glared at the crying infant. "Can't you shut him up?"
"I won't be blackmailed," Cynthia vowed defiantly. "You don't know who you're talking to: I'm Cynthia Cordweiler Usher! My husband loves me, and I love him. He won't listen to your filth!"
Tigre leaned forward, his golden eyes bestial with barely controlled rage. "You forget - I know where the bodies are buried. The Chicago police might like to learn who and what you really are. Aram Usher's a smart man; he'll dump you in the gutter if he even thinks . . . Damn it to hell!" He suddenly darted around the crib and snatched the crying child from Cynthia's arms. She grasped for the baby, but Tigre laughed and quickly stepped backward. He slid his hand around Ludlow's neck.
"Little tit-sucking bastard," he breathed, his eyes wild with fury. Cynthia had seen him like this before, and she didn't dare make a sound. "If you were mine, I'd wring your neck and throw you out that damned window! Go on, scream for your mother! Scream!"
"Give him to me." She was desperately trying to remain calm. Her voice cracked, and her arms trembled as she reached for her child.
Tigre thrust his grinning face toward the infant's. "You'll remember me long after I'm gone, won't you? That's good. I like to leave my mark." He held the child over Cynthia's arms and dropped him like a sack of laundry. As she caught him, Tigre reached forward and ripped her gown open. Buttons flew.
Both of Cynthia's breasts were exposed. She clutched the child to her, and he began to suckle.
"Mrs. Usher?" Righteous called from beyond the door. "You all right, ma'am?"
Tigre laid his riding crop against her cheek.
"Yes," she said in a whisper. Then, louder "Yes! I'm . . . I'm fine. Mr. Tigre is just leaving."
"You remember what I said. Five thousand dollars and the cane. From then on, ten thousand a month." He traced her cheekbone with the crop. "You have a lovely complexion, Cindy. You always were a beauty. Perhaps you'll visit me at the Crockett Hotel yourself?"
"Get out!" she hissed.
"I'll be waiting for your first payment," he told her, withdrawing toward the door. He stopped to smile and bow gracefully, and then he left the room.
Quickly, Cynthia set Ludlow aside and began to gather up the coins. She stuffed them hastily into the pillowcase to dispose of later.
A week afterward, Aram's cane disappeared from the parlor. Servants scurried through the Lodge in search of it. Cynthia surmised that one of the servants had stolen and sold it. Aram spent long hours locked in his room, disconsolate, after firing half of the staff. Cynthia stayed to herself, spending most of her time with the infant, who slept in the fur-trimmed crib beside her bed.
Less than three months later, a shriek from Cynthia in the middle of the night brought Aram running from his chamber down the corridor. He burst in to find her strangling his son; Ludlow's face was blue in the lamplight, and his small body writhed as he fought for breath. He tore her away from him, but she screamed, "He's choking!" and Aram realized something was caught in the baby's throat.
He wrenched Ludlow's mouth open and dug in with his fingers. "Help him!" Cynthia begged frantically. Aram picked the child up and held him by the heels, trying to shake the object loose. Ludlow's throat was still blocked. Cynthia grasped the bellcord and began tugging at it, summoning servants from a lower floor. The bells of alarm echoed through the halls, an eerie chorus of disaster.
Keil Bodane, old Whitt's son, reached the room first. He rushed toward Aram, took the infant in his arms, turned him upside down, and whacked him hard on the back. Whacked him again. And a third time.
A gurgling cough burst from the baby's throat. Something clinked on the floor and rolled away. Then Ludlow howled as if trying to wake the dead. Sobbing, Cynthia took him and rocked him in her arms.
"What's this?" Aram bent to the floor, picked up something, and held it to the light. Cynthia saw the glint of silver - and the breath halted in her own lungs. " 'The Willows,' " he read from the coin. " 'Room Number Four. Cindy.' " When he looked up at her, his face was already freezing into the hard mask that he would wear for the rest of his life. "Explain to me," he whispered, "how a whorehouse token almost strangled my son to death."
Wheeler Dunstan watched Rix carefully. "Cynthia must have missed one of the tokens when she was gathering them up. The thing had lodged somewhere in the baby's crib. Ludlow swallowed it. And so her secret was out. When she was sixteen years old, she was a working prostitute at a whorehouse in New Orleans."
"What happened? Did Aram divorce her?"
"Nope. I think he really loved her, very much. He'd been married once before, to a Chinese girl in San Francisco, and he had a daughter by her: Shann, who in 1858 was twelve years old and studying music in Paris. But. he admired Cynthia's business ability and of course he adored Ludlow. A divorce would've ruined Cynthia socially, and probably financially, too."
"What about Tigre? If he had such a hold on her, he wouldn't give up so easily, would he?"
"Aram found him at the Crockett Hotel - it stood where the Crockett Mall is now - and publicly challenged him to a duel. Of course, dueling was against the law, but Aram Usher had connections in high places. Cynthia begged him not to fight, because Randolph Tigre was an expert shot, but he wouldn't listen. They met in a field not too far from here. Tigre even brought the cane. They were to fight with gold-plated Usher pistols." Dunstan smoked for a moment in silence. "It was no contest. Tigre shot him between the eyes, and Aram Usher fell dead on the spot."
"And then Tigre went after Cynthia again?"
"No," Dunstan replied. "Aram loved her; he wanted to protect both her and the boy. When Keil Bodane checked Aram's pistol, he found it was unloaded. It had never been loaded. In essence, Aram had committed suicide - and Randolph Tigre, a black man with a gambler's reputation, had committed murder. Tigre was forced to flee the state. In death, Aram had won. His will provided that Cynthia take over the armaments business and the estate, but it would all go to Ludlow on his eighteenth birthday."
"What about the cane?" Rix asked. "How did it get back into the family?"
"That's another question I can't answer. Ludlow retrieved it - but how, I don't know." He took the pipe from his mouth and held it between his palms. "There are a lot of questions that need answers. Sometimes I think I'll never find them. This book is important to me - damned important." Dunstan clenched his hands together, knots of muscle standing up in his forearms. "Maybe I've spent six years workin' on it, but it's been in my mind for a long time."
"Ever since the accident?" Rix ventured. "Edwin told me about it. I'm sorry."
"Fine," Dunstan said bitterly. "You're sorry about it, my wife is dead, my daughter has deep emotional and physical scars, I'm crippled - and Walen Usher sat behind a wall of lawyers who said I was drunk when we crashed. He went home to his Lodge, and I had to fight with every ounce of strength in my body just to keep my newspaper. I saw how the Usher mind worked - take what you please, when you please, and the consequences be damned. From that point on, I wanted to find out everything I could about you Ushers. I'm going to finish this book, no matter what your family throws at me - and then, by God, people will know the truth: that you Ushers have the moral sense of maggots and no conscience at all, and you'll sell your souls for the almighty dollar."
Rix started to protest, then reconsidered. His presence here, he realized, was proof of what the man had said; morally, he was betraying his family in pursuit of the money and recognition this book might bring him. Still, what choice did he have? If he wanted control of this project, he first had to control Dunstan's trust. "How can I help you?" he asked calmly.
The other man stared at him in silence, trying to make up his mind. "Okay," he said finally. "If you really want to help, I'll give you the chance. As I said, I need some questions answered: How did Ludlow get the cane back? How did Cynthia Usher die, and when? What happened to Shann?" His eyes were icy with determination. "Ludlow was a young genius with a photographic memory. I've read that he built a workshop somewhere in the Lodge's basement for his inventions. What were they? Then there's another question - a larger one, and probably the most important of all."
"What?"
Dunstan smiled slightly, with a trace of arrogance. "You find me the other answers first. Then we'll talk again."
"And you'll show me the manuscript?"
"Maybe," Dunstan said.
Rix nodded, and rose to leave. For now, he'd have to play this game Dunstan's way. "I'll be back," he promised, and went to the door.
"Rix?" Dunstan called after him. Rix paused. "You be careful,"
Dunstan told him. "You don't know Walen the way I do."
Rix left the house and went to his car under a sky dappled with gathering clouds.