Lasher (21 page)

“We apologize,” they said in their next fax. “Keep up the good work.”

As for Donnelaith, the place captured Yuri’s imagination. For the first time the Mayfair Witches seemed real to him; as a matter of fact, the entire investigation acquired a luminescence for him which no investigation had ever had in the past.

Yuri picked up the books and brochures sold for tourists. He photographed the ruins of the Donnelaith Cathedral and the new chapel only recently uncovered, with the sarcophagus of an unknown saint. He spent his last afternoon in Donnelaith exploring the ruins until sunset, and that night, he eagerly called Aaron from Edinburgh and told him all these feelings, and tried to draw from Aaron some statement about the mysterious couple and who they were.

Could the male companion be the spirit Lasher, come into the world in some human guise?

Aaron said that he was eager to explain everything, but now was not the time. Michael Curry, Rowan Mayfair’s husband, had been nearly killed on Christmas Day in New Orleans, and Aaron wanted to stay close to him, no matter what else was going on.

When Yuri got back to London, he turned the fingerprints and photographs over to the laboratory for processing and classification, and he wrote up his full report to Aaron and sent it by fax to a number in the United States. He sent the customary full copy to the Elders, via fax to Amsterdam. He filed the hard copy—the actual printed pages—and went to sleep.

That morning, when he tried to boot up the primary source material on the Mayfair Witches, he realized the investigation had changed.

All the primary sources—unedited testimony, inventories of items stored, photographs, pictures, et cetera—were closed. Indeed the File on the Mayfair Witches was closed. Yuri could find nothing by means of cross-reference.

When Yuri finally reached Aaron, to ask why this had happened, something curious occurred. Aaron clearly had not known the files had been marked confidential. But he did not want to reveal his surprise to Yuri. Aaron was angry, and disconcerted. Yuri realized he had alarmed Aaron.

That night Yuri wrote to the Elders. “I request permission to join Aaron in this investigation, to go to New Orleans. I do not profess to understand the full scope of what has happened, nor do I need to understand it. But I feel the pressing need to be with Aaron.”

The Elders said no.

Within days, Yuri was pulled off the investigation. He was told that Erich Stolov would take over, a seasoned expert in the field of “these things,” and that Yuri should take a little vacation in Paris for a while, as he would soon be going to Russia, where it was very dreary and cold.

“Sending me to Siberia?” asked Yuri ironically, typing his questions into the computer. “What’s happening with the Mayfair Witches?”

The answer came from Amsterdam that Erich would take care of all European activity on the Mayfair Witches. And once again Yuri was advised to get some rest. He was also told that anything he knew about the Mayfair Witches was confidential,
and he must not discuss this matter even with Aaron. It was a standard admonition, advised the Elders, where “this sort” of investigation was involved.

“You know our nature,” read the communiqué. “We do not intervene in things. We are cautious. We are watchers. Yet we have our principles. Now there is danger in this situation of an unprecedented sort. You must leave it to more experienced men like Erich. Aaron knows the Elders have closed the records. You will not hear from him again.”

That was the disturbing sentence, the chain of words which had thrown everything off.

You will not hear from him again
.

In the middle of the night, while the Motherhouse slept in the sharp cold of winter, Yuri typed a message on the computer to the Elders.

“I find I cannot leave this investigation without mixed feelings. I am concerned about Aaron Lightner. He has not called me for weeks. I would like to contact Aaron. Please advise.”

Around four a.m., the fax awakened Yuri. The reply had come back from Amsterdam. “Yuri, let this matter alone. Aaron is in good hands. There are no better investigators than Erich Stolov and Clement Norgan, both of whom are now assigned full-time to this case. This investigation is proceeding very rapidly, and someday you will hear the whole tale. Until then, all is secret. Do not ask to speak to Aaron again.”

Do not ask to speak to Aaron again?

Yuri couldn’t sleep after that. He went down into the kitchen. The kitchen was made up of several huge, cavernous rooms and full of the smell of baking bread. Only the night cooks worked, preparing this bread and pushing it into the huge ovens, and they took no notice of Yuri as he poured himself some coffee, with cream, and sat on a wooden bench by the fire.

Yuri realized that he could not abide by this directive from the Elders! He realized very simply that he loved Aaron, indeed that he was so dependent upon Aaron that he could not think of life without him.

It is a terrible thing to realize that you depend so much upon another; that your entire sense of well-being is connected to that one—that you need him, love him, that he is the chief witness of your life. Yuri was disappointed in himself and leery. But this was the realization.

He went upstairs and quietly placed a long-distance call to Aaron.

“The Elders have told me not to talk to you directly any longer,” he said.

Aaron was astounded.

“I’m coming,” said Yuri.

“This might mean expulsion,” said Aaron.

“We’ll see. I will be in New Orleans as soon as I can.”

Yuri made his plane arrangements, packed his bags and went down to wait for the car. Anton Marcus came down to see him, disheveled, in his dark blue robe and leather slippers, obviously just awakened from sleep.

“You can’t go, Yuri,” he said. “This investigation is becoming more dangerous by the moment. Aaron doesn’t understand it.”

He took Yuri into his office.

“Our world has its own timekeeper,” said Anton gently. “We are like the Vatican if you will. A century or two—that is not long to us. We have watched the Mayfair Witches for many centuries.”

“I know.”

“Now something has happened which we feared and could not prevent. It presents immense danger to us and to others. We need you to remain here, to wait for orders, to do as you are told.”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m going to Aaron,” said Yuri. He got up and walked out. He did not think about this. He did not look back. He had no particular interest in Anton’s emotional reaction.

He did take a long farewell look at the Motherhouse itself, but as the car went on towards Heathrow, there was really only one theme which played itself out in his mind, rather like a fugue. He saw Andrew dying in the hotel room in Rome. He saw Aaron sitting opposite him, Yuri, at the table, saying, “I am your friend.” He saw his mother, too, dying in the village in Serbia.

There was no conflict in him.

He was going to Aaron. He knew that was what he had to do.

L
ARK WAS SOUND
asleep when the plane landed in New Orleans. It startled him to discover that they were already at the gate. Indeed, people were disembarking. The stewardess was beaming down at him, his raincoat dangling from her graceful arm. He felt a little embarrassed for a moment, as though he had lost some precious advantage; then he was on his feet.

He had a terrible headache, and he was hungry, and then the searing excitement of this mystery, this Rowan Mayfair offspring mystery, came back to him in the shape of a great burden. How could a rational man be expected to explain such a thing? What time was it? Eight a.m. in New Orleans. That meant it was only six a.m. back on the coast.

Immediately he saw the white-haired man waiting for him and realized it was Lightner before the man clasped his hand and said his own name. Very personable old guy; gray suit and all.

“Dr. Larkin. There’s been a family emergency. Neither Ryan nor Pierce Mayfair could be here. Let me take you to your hotel. Ryan will be in touch with us as soon as he can.” Same British polish that Lark had admired so much over the phone.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Lightner, but I have to tell you, I had a run-in with one of your colleagues in San Francisco. Not so good.”

Lightner was clearly surprised. They walked up the concourse together, Lightner’s profile rather grave for a moment and distant. “Who was this, I wonder,” he said with unconcealed annoyance. He looked tired, as if he had not slept all night.

Lark was feeling better now. The headache was dissipating. He was fantasizing about coffee and sweet rolls, and a dinner reservation at Commander’s Palace, and maybe an afternoon nap. And then he thought of the specimens. He thought of
Rowan. That embarrassing excitement overcame him, and with it, an ugly feeling of being involved in something unwholesome, something all wrong.

“Our hotel is only a few blocks from Commander’s Palace,” said Lightner easily. “We can take you there this evening. Maybe we can persuade Michael to go with us. There has been…an emergency. Something to do with Ryan’s family. Otherwise Ryan would have been here himself. But this colleague of mine? Can you tell me what happened? Do you have luggage?”

“No, just my valise here, loaded for a one-night stand.” Like most surgeons, Lark liked being up at this hour. If he were back in San Francisco, he’d be in surgery right now. He was feeling better with every step he took.

They proceeded towards the bright warm daylight, and the busy gathering of cabs and limousines beyond the glass doors. It wasn’t terribly cold here. No, not as bitingly cold as San Francisco, not at all. But the light was the real difference. There was more of it. And the air stood motionless around you. Kind of nice.

“This colleague,” said Lark, “said his name was Erich Stolov. He demanded to know where the specimens were.”

“Is that so?” said Lightner with a slight frown. He gestured to the left, and one of the many limousines, a great sleek gray Lincoln, crawled out and towards them, its windows black and secretive. Lightner didn’t wait for the driver to come round. He opened the back door himself.

Gratefully, Lark climbed into the soft velvet gray interior, shifting over to the far seat, faintly disturbed by the smell of cigarette smoke lingering in the upholstery and stretching out his legs comfortably in the luxuriant space. Lightner sat beside him, and away the car sped instantly, in its own realm of darkness thanks to the tinted windows, suddenly shut off from all the airport traffic and the pure brilliance of the morning sun.

But it was comfortable, this car. And it was fast.

“What did Erich say to you?” asked Lightner, with deliberate concealing evenness.

Lark wasn’t fooled by it. “Stood right in front of me, demanding to know where the specimens were. Rude. Downright aggressive and rude. I can’t figure it. Was he trying to intimidate me?”

“You didn’t tell him what he wanted to know,” said Lightner softly and conclusively and looked out the darkened
glass. They were on the highway, turning onto the freeway, and this place looked a little like any place—squat suburban buildings with names blaring from them, empty space, uncut grass, motels.

“Well, no, of course not. I didn’t tell him anything,” said Lark. “I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all. I told you Rowan Mayfair asked me to handle this confidentially. I’m here because of information you volunteered and because the family asked me to come. I’m not in a position really to turn over these specimens to anyone. In fact, I don’t think I could successfully retrieve them from the people who have them at this point. Rowan was specific. She wanted them tested in secret at a certain place.”

“The Keplinger Institute,” said Lightner gently and politely, as if reading this off a cue card on Lark’s forehead, his pale eyes calm. “Mitch Flanagan, the genetic genius, the man who worked with Rowan there before she decided not to stay in research.”

Lark didn’t say anything. The car floated soundlessly along the skyway. The buildings grew denser and the grass more unkempt.

“If you know, then why did this guy ask me?” Lark demanded. “Why did he stand in my path and try to force me to tell him all this? How did you find out, by the way? I’d like to know. Who are you? I would like to know that too.”

Lightner was looking away, weary, saddened.

“I told you there was a family emergency this morning, did I not?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to hear it. I didn’t mean to be insensitive on that account. I was mad about your friend.”

“I know,” said Lightner affably. “I understand. He should not have behaved that way. I’ll call the Motherhouse in London. I’ll try to find out why that happened. Or more truly, I’ll make certain that nothing like that ever happens again.” There was a little blaze of temper in the man’s eyes for an instant, and then something sour and fearful in his gaze. Very transitory. He smiled pleasantly. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Appreciate it,” said Lark. “How did you know about Mitch Flanagan and the Keplinger Institute?”

“You could call it a guess,” said Lightner. He was deeply disturbed by all this; that was plain even though his face was now a carefully painted picture of serenity, and his voice betrayed
nothing but his tiredness, and a general low frame of mind.

“What is this emergency? What happened?”

“I don’t know all the details yet. Only that Pierce and Ryan Mayfair had to go to Destin, Florida, early this morning. They asked me to meet you. Seems something has happened to Ryan’s wife, Gifford. Again I’m not sure. I don’t know.”

“This Erich Stolov. You work with him?”

“Not directly. He was here two months ago. He’s a new generation of Talamasca. It’s the old story. I’ll find out why he behaved the way he did. The Motherhouse does not know the specimens are at the Keplinger Institute. If the younger members showed as much zeal at reading the files as they do for fieldwork, they could have figured it out.”

“What files, what do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s a long story. And never a particularly easy one to tell. I understand your reluctance to tell anyone about these specimens. I wouldn’t tell anyone else if I were you.”