Lasher (74 page)

Esplanade Avenue had seen better days. But it was architecturally fascinating to Yuri, all these marvelous vintage buildings, amid the other commercial makeshift trash. He’d enjoyed his long walk through the Quarter, meandering, and then coming upon this house just as he reached the border of the district, the grand avenue which had once been the high street of the French and Spanish, and was now still full of mansions such as this. Of course two men were following him. But so what?

He felt the big heavy gun in his pocket. Wooden handle, long barrel. All right.

Beatrice let him in.

“Oh, thank God, darling, Aaron is on tenterhooks. What can I get for you?” She glanced past him. She saw the man under the tree across the street.

“Nothing, madam, thank you,” said Yuri. “I like my coffee very black and strong, and I stopped for a nice quick shot of it in one of the little cafés.”

They stood in a massive center hall, with a grand stairway flowing up beyond them, branched at its landing, sending narrow stairs up the right wall and the left. The floor was mosaic tile and the walls were like those outside, a deep terra-cotta red.

“That’s exactly the kind of coffee I make,” said Beatrice, taking his raincoat from him, virtually helping him out of it. The gun was in his jacket, thank God. “Brewed regular but from espresso roast. Now go into the parlor. Aaron will be so relieved.”

“Ah, then I will accept, thank you,” said Yuri.

Parlors lay to the left of him and to the right. But he could feel the warmth coming from the one just before him, and then he saw Aaron in one of his worn gray wool cardigans, pipe in hand, standing by the fire. Again, he was impressed with the vigor in Aaron and how it seemed mingled with his anger, and his suspicion. There was a hard line to Aaron’s mouth but it made him look more the conventional man.

“We have a communication from the Elders,” said Aaron without preamble. “It came in on the fax line at the Pontchartrain Hotel.”

“The Elders used such a means?”

“It’s written entirely in Latin. It’s addressed to us both. There are two copies, one for each of us.”

“How considerate of them.”

Deep oxblood leather couches faced each other before the fireplace, revealing only the center of a dark blue Chinese rug. The table was glass, littered with papers. There were large rich modern paintings, abstracts mostly, in gilt frames. Marble-top tables; armchairs of tufted velvet, a little worn. Fresh flowers, such as one usually sees only in public lobbies. Big gorgeous blooms arranged in porcelain vases before various mirrors, here and there, and above the mantel with its solemn marble lion’s head beneath it. All very beautiful and comfortable to behold. Communications from the Elders, dear God.

“Sit down, I’ll translate it for you.”

Yuri sat down. “You don’t have to translate it for me, Aaron. I read Latin.” He gave a little laugh. “I sometimes write to the Elders in Latin, just to keep sharp.”

“Ah, of course you do,” said Aaron. “How could I not know that? That was stupid of me.” He gestured to the two shiny fax copies on the table, strewn, as it were, over the magazines—those large expensive compendiums of furnishings and architecture full of designer names and famous faces and advertisements for the sort of fine items which were everywhere in this very room.

“You don’t remember Cambridge?” asked Yuri. “Those afternoons when I read Virgil to you? You don’t remember my translation of Marcus Aurelius that I made for you?”

“Remember it.” Aaron pressed his lips together. “I carry it with me. I’m going soft in the head. I’m so used to those of your generation not reading Latin. Just a slipup. The day I first laid eyes on you, how many languages did you speak?”

“I don’t know. I know what I
don’t
know. Let me read it.”

“Yes, but tell me first what you found out.”

“Stolov is at the Windsor Court, very fancy, very expensive. He has two other men with him, possibly three. There are others from the Order. They were following me when I came back down Chartres Street to come here. There is a man across the street. All of them same age, same style—young Anglo-Saxon or Scandinavian, dark suits, same thing. I would say there are six of them I know now by face. They took no pains to conceal themselves. Indeed, I think it is their motive to frighten, or to compel, if you know what I mean.”

Beatrice came sweeping into the room, her high heels clicking glamorously on the tile floor. She set down the tray with small cups of steaming espresso. “There’s a potful,” she said. “Now I’m going to call Cecilia.”

“Is there any more family news?” asked Yuri.

“Rowan’s doing well. There’s no change. There is brain activity, but it’s minimal. Yet she’s breathing on her own.”

“Persistent vegetative state,” said Aaron softly.

“Oooh, why do you have to say those words again?” Beatrice scolded gently.

“You know why. Rowan is not—at this
time
—recovering. One must keep that in mind.”

“But the mysterious man himself,” asked Yuri.

“No sight of him anywhere,” said Beatrice. “They are saying he couldn’t be in Houston. You can’t imagine how many people are searching the city of Houston. He may have cut his hair, of course, but there’s nothing he can do about being six and half feet in height. God only knows where he is. I’m going to leave you with Aaron. I don’t want to think about it. I am cooking dinner with an armed guard in my kitchen.”

“He won’t eat very much,” said Aaron with a little smile.

“Oh, hush up.” She seemed on the verge of something, then simply went to Aaron and kissed him brusquely and affectionately, and dashed out in a flurry of silk and clicking heels as she had come.

Yuri loved the coffee. A pot of it. His hands would soon be trembling and he would have indigestion, but he didn’t care. When you love coffee you abandon everything to that love.

He picked up the fax. He knew Latin so well he did not have to translate in his mind. It was as clear to him as any tongue he spoke:

Yuri folded the slick pages, and slipped his copy into his jacket pocket right alongside of the gun.

He looked up at Aaron, who seemed calm, unconcerned, deep in thought.

“Is this my fault?” asked Yuri. “That you are excommunicated so quickly? Should I not have come?”

“No, don’t let the word chill your heart. I was excommunicated because I refused to leave here. I was excommunicated because I would not stop sending queries to Amsterdam as to what was actually going on. I was excommunicated because I ceased to ‘watch and be always here.’ I’m glad you’re here, because now I feel anxiety for all my fellow members. I don’t know how to tell them. But you, you who were the dearest to me, besides David, you are here and you know what I know.”

“How do you mean that you are frightened for the other members?”

“I am not an Elder,” said Aaron. “I am seventy-nine years old but I am not an Elder.” He looked at Yuri.

Of course this simple admission was a flagrant violation of the rules.

Aaron went on: “David Talbot was never an Elder. He told me so before he…left the Order. He told me that he had never spoken with anyone who was an Elder, indeed, he had obtained many a surreptitious and frequent denial from the older ones—they weren’t Elders. They didn’t know who the Elders were.”

Yuri didn’t answer. All his life, since the age of twelve, he had lived with the idea that the Elders were his brethren, a jury, so to speak, of his peers.

“Precisely,” said Aaron. “And now I don’t know who they are or what their motives are. I think they killed a doctor in San Francisco. I believe they killed Dr. Samuel Larkin. I believe that they have used people like me all our lives—to gather information for some occult purpose that was never understood or appreciated by those of my generation. That is the only thing I can believe.”

Yuri again didn’t reply. But this was a full and eloquent expression of his own suspicions—the deep sinister feelings which had come over him not long after his return to the Motherhouse from Donnelaith.

“If I try now to access the main files, I’ll be denied,” he said, sort of thinking aloud.

“Possibly,” said Aaron. “Not everyone in the Order knows computers as you know them, Yuri. If you know the access code of any other member.”

“I know several,” he said. “I should go at once to some place where I can make the calls. I should find out anything else that is there—cross-referenced in any conceivable way. It will take me two days or more to do this. I can go into the Latin which has been scanned and collated. I can use search words. There is much perhaps I could find out.”

“They might have thought of all that. They must have. But it’s worth a try. My mind is too old for it, and so are my fingers. But there is a computer modem with a phone in the house on Amelia Street. It belongs to Mona Mayfair. She’s given permission for you to use it. She says you’ll figure it out. It’s DOS. You understand this? DOS?”

Yuri laughed softly. “You make it sound like a Druidic god.
It means the operating system of the computer, that it is IBM-compatible. Yes.”

“She said she left some instructions for you on the contents of the hard drive but you could boot a directory and see it all for yourself. She said her own files are locked.”

“I know of Mona and her computer,” said Yuri softly. “I would not go into her files.”

“It was her meaning that you could access anything else.”

“I see.”

“There are dozens of computer modem systems at Mayfair and Mayfair. I believe Mona’s is the best, however—the state of the art.”

Yuri nodded. “I’m going to do that immediately.” He drank another stiff cup of the smooth rich coffee. He remembered Mona with uncommon warmth. “And then we can talk.”

“Yes, talk.”

But what would they say? They were too crestfallen to say much of anything. In fact, a terrible gloom hovered near Yuri ready to descend in full force, rather like the gloom when the gypsies had taken him from his dead mother. Strangers. A world full of strangers. Except for Aaron, and these kindly people, this Mona whom he liked already very much.

At Amelia Street, Yuri had met Mona today, sometime around noon. He’d been eating American dry cereal with milk at the breakfast table. She had talked to him nonstop, questioning him, chatting with him, all to one purpose or another as she gnawed on an apple till there was perhaps one seed left.

The entire family was electric with the news that she would be the next designee of the legacy. They had come up to her continuously, paying court to her, doing everything but asking to kiss her ring. But then she did not have a ring.

Finally Mona had said, “How can we carry on this way when Rowan is still alive?”

And Randall, the huge, soft old man with the many chins, had said: “Darling, that’s got nothing to do with it. Whether she lives or dies, Rowan is now incapable of ever bearing another child.”

Mona had looked stunned, then only nodded, and whispered, “Of course.”