Lasher (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 2)

"Ghosts, spirits and creatures," Ryan said. It was as though the wax he was made of was beginning to melt altogether.

"Come on, Dad, take it easy," said Pierce, and for the moment sounded like the elder.

"Gifford told me that she thought the man had come through," Ryan said. "It was the last conversation I ever had with my wife and she said..." He stopped.

Silence.

"I think we are resolved on one point, Michael," said Aaron, with a touch of impatience. "That you remain here."

"Yeah, I got that," said Michael. "I'm staying. But I want to see all the reports. I want to become involved on every level. I want to talk to this Dr. Larkin."

"There is one other very important matter," said Aaron. "Ryan, for obvious reasons, did not consent to an autopsy being performed on Gifford."

Ryan glared at him. Michael had never seen Ryan so full of blatant hostility. Aaron caught it as well, and he hesitated, very obviously at a loss for a moment, before he continued:

"But there is bloodstained clothing which can be tested."

"For what?" demanded Ryan. "What has my wife to do with you? With any of this?"

Aaron couldn't answer. He looked distraught suddenly. He fell quiet.

"Are you trying to tell me my wife had some doings with this thing? That he killed her?" Aaron didn't answer.

"Dad, she had a miscarriage up there," said Pierce, "and you and I both know--" The young man stopped himself but the blow was struck. "My mother was high-strung," he said. "She and my father..."

Ryan didn't reply. His rage had hardened into something worse. Michael shook his head before he could stop himself. Mona's face was impassive as ever.

"There was evidence of a miscarriage?" Aaron asked.

"Well, she suffered a uterine hemorrhage," said Pierce. "That's what the local doctor said, some kind of miscarriage."

"He doesn't know," said Ryan. "The local doctors said she died from loss of blood. That's all they knew. Loss of blood. She started to hemorrhage and she didn't or couldn't call for help. She died on the sand. My wife was an affectionate and normal woman. But she was forty-six years old. It is highly unlikely she had a miscarriage. Indeed, it is almost a preposterous idea. She suffered from fibroid tumors."

"Dad, let them test what they have, please. I want to know why Mother died. If it was the tumors, I want to know. Please. All of us want to know. Why did she have the hemorrhage?"

"All right," said Ryan, in a seething rage. "You want these tests run on your mother's clothes?" He threw up his hands.

"Yes," said Pierce calmly.

"All right. For you then this will be done, for you and your sisters. We'll run the tests. We'll find out what triggered the hemorrhage."

Pierce was satisfied, but clearly worried about his father.

Ryan had more to say. But he gestured for them to wait. He held his right hand in the air, and gestured again, tentatively, and then he began to speak.

"I will do what I can do under these circumstances. I will continue the search for Rowan. I will have the bloodstained clothes tested. I will do the sane and proper thing. I will do the honorable thing. The legal thing. The necessary thing. But I do not believe in this man! I do not believe in this ghost. I never have! And I have no reason to believe in it now. And whatever the truth of it ail, it has nothing to do with the death of my wife!

"But let us take up the matter of Rowan again. Gifford is in God's hands. Rowan may still be in ours. Now, Aaron, how can we get this scientific data, or whatever it is, from the Keplinger Institute? That will be my first order of business. To find out how we can subpoena the material Rowan sent to Larkin. I'm going to the office now. I'm going to lay hands on that material. The designee of the legacy has disappeared, there may have been foul play, legal actions have already been taken regarding funds, accounts, signatures et al.--" He stopped as though he had gone as far as he could, staring forward, like a machine that had run out of electricity.

"I understand your feelings, Ryan," said Aaron softly. "Even the most conservative witness can say that there is a mystery here revolving around this male creature."

"You and the Talamasca," Ryan whispered. "You infer. You observe, you witness. You look at all these puzzling things and you throw out an interpretation which fits with your beliefs, your superstitions, your dogmatic insistence that the world of ghosts and spirits is real. I don't buy it. I think your history of our family is some sort of...some sort of dazzling hoax, if you want the truth. I don't...I'm having an investigation of my own done, of you, if you want to know."

Aaron's eyes narrowed. There was a touch of bitterness, sourness, in his voice when he spoke.

"I don't blame you," he said.

There was something very cross and bitter in his face suddenly. Repression of temper. Repression of confusion or ambivalence. Michael sensed it more strongly now than before. Aaron wasn't himself, as they say.

"Do you have the clothing, Ryan?" Aaron asked, pushing on with this unpleasant request, as if he resented very deeply having to do it. He was taking out that resentment on Ryan. "Gifford's clothes. What she was wearing when she died?"

"Goddamnit," Ryan whispered. He picked up the phone. He reached his secretary downtown within seconds. "Carla," he said, "Ryan here. Call the coroner in Walton County, Florida. Call the funeral parlor. What happened to Gifford's clothes? I have to have them."

He put down the phone. "Is there anything else?" he asked. "I'd like to go to the office. I have work to do. I have to go home early. My children need me. Alicia has been hospitalized. She needs me. I need to be alone for a while. I need to...I need to grieve for my wife. Pierce, I'd like it if we left now. If you came with me." All this was too hurried.

"Yes, Dad, but I want to know about Mother's clothes."

"What in God's name has this to do with Gifford!" Ryan demanded. "God, have you all lost your minds."

"Just want to know," said Pierce. "You know...you know Mom was scared to come here on Mardi Gras, she was..."

"No, don't go on. Don't do it," said Ryan. "Let's stick to what we have here. What we know. We'll do whatever anybody wants us to do for any reason! And Michael, tomorrow I'll make available to you everything we have on Rowan. Hell, I'll make it available now. I'll send you the records of the entire investigation."

Once again, h

e picked up the phone and punched in the office numbers at the speed of light. He did not bother to say his name. He told the person on the other end, "Messenger over a copy of all the papers pertaining to Rowan. Yes, all that. The detectives, the Xeroxes of the checks, every scrap of paper we have on her. Her husband wants it. He has a right to see it. He's her husband. He has...a right."

Silence. He was listening.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

His face went blank and then it began to color, to redden, and as he hung up the phone, he turned his gaze on Aaron. "Your investigators picked up my wife's clothes? They took them from the Walton County coroner's office and from the funeral parlor? Who told you you could do such a thing?"

Aaron didn't answer. But Michael could read the surprise and the confusion in his face. Aaron hadn't known. He was shocked as well as humiliated. He seemed to be thinking it all over, and then he gave a little careful shrug.

"I'm sorry," Aaron said at last. "I did not authorize anyone to do this. I apologize to you. I'll see that everything is returned, immediately."

Now Michael understood why Aaron was not himself. Something was happening within the ranks, something between Aaron and the Order. He had sensed it earlier but he hadn't known how to interpret it.

"You damn well better!" said Ryan. "I've had enough of scholars and secrets and people spying on one another." He stood up. Pierce stood also.

"Come on, Dad," Pierce said, once again taking charge. "Let's go home. I'll go back to the office this afternoon. Let's go."

Aaron did not rise to his feet. He did not look up at Ryan. He was gazing off, and then he seemed to drift away from them, into his own thoughts. He was disgruntled, but it was worse than that.

Michael rose and took Ryan's hand. He shook hands also, as he always did, with Pierce. "Thank you both."

"It's the least you could expect," said Ryan disgustedly. "We'll meet tomorrow, you and I, and Lauren and Randall. We'll find Rowan if Rowan..."

"...can be found," said Mona.

"I told you to shut up," said Ryan. "I want you to go home," Ryan said. "Ancient Evelyn is there alone."

"Oh, yeah, somebody's always there alone and they need me, don't they?" Mona said. She brought her leg round and stood up, straightening the girlish cotton dress. The two loops of her white ribbon poked up behind her head. "I'll go on home. Don't worry."