Forensic analysis of Deirdre's genetic blueprint had also indicated she did not possess the extra chromosomes, yet she had given birth to a child who did. Still, should those who carried the extra package court disaster?
"Look, that thing came through on Christmas. Rowan and I didn't make it. We just created a fetus, and the thing took it out of God's hands. It didn't grow out of control in Rowan's body. It didn't make her abort. Not until that thing went into it."
God's hands. How odd of him to have used the word God. But the longer he stayed in this house, the longer he stayed in New Orleans, and there was no reason to presume he wouldn't forever, the more normal the concept of God seemed.
Whatever, the genetic material had only been discovered. A small core of family-managed doctors were working right round the clock to solve the mystery, working even now...
Nothing was going to happen to these doctors either. Only Ryan and Lauren knew their actual location, their names, the laboratory in which they worked. The Talamasca would not be told this time, the Talamasca whom Aaron no longer trusted, and whom he suspected of the worst, most unspeakable wrongs.
"Aaron, take it easy," Michael had said earlier this afternoon. "Lasher could have killed those doctors, it's just that simple. He could have killed anyone who had any evidence."
"He is one being, Michael. He cannot be in two places at once. Please believe me, a man of my ilk doesn't make rash statements, especially not about an organization to which he has given his undivided loyalty for an entire life."
Michael hadn't pressed him. But he hadn't liked the idea, not at all. On the other hand, there was something he should have told Aaron! If only they'd been alone, but that never seemed to happen. When Aaron had stopped this morning, Yuri, the gypsy kid, had been with him, and the indefatigable Ryan and his clone, son Pierce.
Michael looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty. And it was Aaron's wedding night. He sat back, wondering when it would be proper to call. Of course there would be no honeymoon for Aaron or Beatrice. How could there be? But they were married now, lawfully under the same roof, and the entire family was happy. Michael had heard enough to be sure of it from the cousins who had come to visit all day long.
Well, he had to get a message to Aaron. He had to not forget this. He had to remember everything, and be ready, and his weariness couldn't get to him, or fuddle him. Not this time.
He turned and opened the top drawer of the chest very quietly. The big gun was a beauty. He'd love to take that down to a shooting gallery and fire away. Funny thing was, Mona said she liked to do that. And he'd gotten a kick out of it. Mona and Gifford had gone target practicing together in a funny place in Gretna where you wore ear covers and eye covers and fired at paper targets in long concrete carrels.
Ah, the gun, yes, and also here was the notepad he had put there himself some weeks before. And a fine-point black pen, perfect.
He took the pad and pen, and shut the drawer.
Dear Aaron,
Somebody's going to take this note to you. Because I will not have a chance to tell you this for some time. I still think you're all wrong about the T. They couldn't have done those things. They just couldn't. But there is another corroborating opinion. This you need to know.
This is the poem Julien recited to me, the poem Ancient Evelyn recited to him over seventy years ago. I cannot get away to ask Ancient Evelyn if she remembers it. She's no longer talking sense, they tell me. Maybe you can ask her. This is what is written in my mind.
One will rise who is too evil.
One will come who is too good.
'Twixt the two, a witch shall falter
and thereby open wide the door.
Pain and suffering as they stumble
Blood and fear before they learn.
Woe betide this Springtime Eden
Now the vale of those who mourn.
Beware the watchers in that hour
Bar the doctors from the house
Scholars will but nourish evil
Scientists would raise it high.
Let the devil speak his story
Let him rouse the angel's might
Make the dead come back to witness
Put the alchemist to flight.
Slay the flesh that is not human
Trust to weapons crude and cruel
For, dying on the verge of wisdom,
Tortured souls may seek the light.
Crush the babes who are not children
Show no mercy to the pure
Else shall Eden have no Springtime.
Else shall our kind reign no more.
He read it over. Dreadful handwriting. You've let it go to pot, buddy. But it was readable, and now he circled the words Scholars, Scientists, alchemist.
He wrote: "Julien was suspicious too. Incident in a church in London. Not in your files."
He folded the paper, and put it in his pocket. He'd entrust this to Pierce or Gerald only, and one of them would be along before midnight. Or maybe even Hamilton, who was out taking a nap. Hamilton wasn't a bad guy at all.
He slipped the pen in his pocket and reached out with his left hand to clasp Rowan's fingers. There was a sudden jerk. He rose up with a start.
"Just a reflex, Mr. Curry," said the nurse from the shadows. "It happens now and then. If she was hooked to one of the machines, it would drive the needle crazy, but it doesn't mean a damned thing."
He sat back, holding tight to her hand, refusing to admit it was as cool and lifeless as before. He looked at her profile. It seemed to have slipped a little to the left. But maybe that was a mistake. Or they had lifted her head for some reason, or he was just dreaming.
Then he felt the fingers tighten again.
"There, it happened," he said. He stood up. "Turn on that lamp."
"It's nothing, you're torturing yourself," said the nurse. She came softly to the side of the bed, and she laid her fingers on Rowan's right wrist. Then, removing a small flashlight from her pocket, she bent over and directed the tiny beam right into Rowan's eye.
She stepped back, shaking her head.
Michael sat down again. OK, honey. OK. I'm going to get him. I'm going to kill him. I'm going to destroy him. I'm going to see that his brief fleshly life comes to a swift end. I am going to do it. Nothing this time will stop me. Nothing. He kissed her open palm. No movement in the fingers. He kissed it again, and then he folded the hand closed and put it at her side.
How terrible to think she might not want him to be touching her, might not like the light or the candles, might not want anyone near her, and yet she was locked inside, unable to utter a single word.
"Love you, darling dear," he said to her. "I love you. I love you."
The clock struck eleven. How strange it was. The hours dragged and then they flew. Only Rowan's breathing had the constant rhythm.
He lay back in the chair, and closed his eyes.
It was past midnight when he looked up again. He studied his watch, and then cautiously he looked at Rowan. Was she exactly the same? The nurse was at the little mahogany table, writing as always. Hamilton was in a chair in the far corner, reading by a small high-beam light.
Her eyes somehow...But the nurse would scoff at him. Still...
The guard stood outside, on the gallery, his back to the window which he had shut.
Another figure stood in the room. It was Yuri, the gypsy with the slanted eyes and the black hair. He was smiling at Michael and just for a moment Michael was uncomfortably startled, off base. But the face was kind. Almost beatific like that of Aaron.
He stood up, and motioned for the man to move out into the hail.
"I came from Aaron," said Yuri. "He says to tell you he is happily married. He says he wants you to remember what he said. You are not to let anyone from the Talamasca in here. Not anyone. You must tell them. It was a snap for me to get in. Won't you tell them all, now?"
"Yes, yes, I'll do that." He turned and made a little motion to the nurse. She knew
what it meant. Take Rowan's vital signs. I have to go out for three minutes. I won't do it unless you take her pulse.
The nurse went about it quickly and made the sign to him: "No change."
"Are you sure?"
The nurse sighed coldly. "Yes, Mr. Curry."