One way or the other, she was obedient to Father, or obedient to Mother.
“And I will be looking for you,” he’d said.
It shouldn’t be all that hard, and walking was fun.
Twenty-two
THEY WERE GATHERED by nine o’clock in the office on the top floor of the Mayfair Building-Lightner, Anne Marie, Lauren, Ryan, Randall and Fielding. Fielding really wasn’t well enough to be there, anyone could see this. But no one was going to argue.
When Pierce came in, with Mona, there was no complaint and no surprise, though everyone stared at Mona, naturally enough, having never seen her in a blue wool suit, and of course this one-her mother’s-was a little too big for her, though not much. She did look years older now, but that was as much on account of the expression on her face as the loss of childish locks and her ribbon. She wore a pair of high heels that did fit all right, and Pierce kept trying not to look at her legs, which were very beautiful.
Pierce had never found it easy to be around his cousin Mona, not even when she was very little. There had been something seductive about her even when she was four and he was eleven. She had tried countless times to lure him into the woods. “You’re just too little” had become lame around five years ago. Now it was really lame. However, Mona was as exhausted as he was.
“Our mothers are dead!” She’d whispered that to him on the way downtown. In fact that was the only thing she’d said between Amelia Street and the office.
What the others would have to understand at some point was that Mona had taken over. Pierce had just gotten to Amelia Street with the news that all the Mayfairs were being called; that cousins as far away as Europe were being contacted. He thought he had things pretty much under control; indeed there was a curious excitement to it all, the excitement that death brings when everything is disrupted. Pierce thought perhaps it was like that at the very beginning of a war, before suffering and death wore everyone into despair.
Whatever, when they’d called to say Mandy Mayfair was dead too, he had not been able to respond. Mona had been at his elbow. “Give me that phone,” she’d said.
Mandy Mayfair had died about twelve o’clock today. That was midway between Edith’s death and Alicia’s. Mandy had obviously been dressing for Gifford’s funeral. Her prayer book and her rosary had been on the bed. The windows of her French Quarter apartment were wide open to the little courtyard. Anyone could have come over that wall. There was no other sign of foul play, as they said, or forced entry. Mandy had been on the bathroom floor, knees drawn up, arms locked around her waist. There were flowers scattered all around her. Even the police had figured out they came from the courtyard garden. Sprigs of lantana which had bloomed again in the warm months after Christmas. All those little orange and purple blossoms had been broken up on top of her.
Now, no one was going to call this a “natural death” or the result of some mysterious illness. But Pierce could get no further than that in his reasoning. Because if something came in and killed Edith, and Mandy, and Alicia, and Lindsay in Houston, and the other cousin whose name, shamefully enough, he could not even remember, well, then that something had come in on his mother.
And her last moments had not been tranquil, hand reached out to receive the sea, and all the other mythology he had laid upon it when he saw her dead body, and heard how it had been found, and how the blood was washing away even as they picked her up and put her on the stretcher.
No, that was not the way it was.
He drew the chair back for Mona, adjusted it for her as a gentleman should, and then he sat down. Somehow or other he was facing Randall. But then when Pierce saw the expression on his father’s face, he understood. Randall was at the head of the table because Randall was in charge. Ryan was in no condition anymore to do much of anything.
“Well, you know this is not what we thought,” said Mona.
To Pierce’s amazement, they all nodded, that is, those who bothered to do anything nodded. Lauren looked exhausted but otherwise calm. Anne Marie was the only one who seemed frankly horrified.
The biggest surprise perhaps was Lightner. Lightner was looking out the window. He was looking at the river down there and the lighted bridges of the Crescent City Connection. He seemed not even to have noticed that Pierce and Mona had come in. He did not look at Pierce now. Or at Mona.
“Aaron,’ Pierce said, “I thought you’d have some help for us, some guidance.” That just popped out of Pierce’s mouth before he could stop himself. It was the sort of thing he said which constantly got him into trouble. His father said, A lawyer does not speak what is on his mind! A lawyer keeps his own counsel.
Aaron turned towards the table, and then folded his arms and looked at Mona, and then at Pierce.
“Why would you trust me now?” Aaron asked in a quiet voice.
“The point is this,” said Randall. “We know this is one individual. We know that he is six and one-half feet tall. That he has black hair; that he is some form of mutant. We know now that Edith and Alicia suffered miscarriages. We know from the superficial autopsy results that this individual was the cause of them. We know that embryonic development in at least two cases was vastly accelerated, and that the mothers went into shock within hours of impregnation. We expect any minute to have Houston confirm similar findings in the cases of Lindsay and Clytee.”
“Ah, that was her name, Clytee,” said Pierce. He realized suddenly that they were all looking at him. He hadn’t meant to speak out loud.
“The point is, it is not a disease,” said Randall, “and it is an individual.”
“And the individual is seeking to mate,” said Lauren coldly. “The individual is seeking members of this family which may have genetic abnormalities which render them compatible with the individual.”
“And we also know,” said Randall, “that this individual is seeking his victims among the most inbred lines in the family.”
“OK,” Mona said, “four deaths here, two in Houston. The Houston deaths were later.”
“Several hours later,” said Randall. “The individual could easily have taken a plane to Houston in that time.”
“So there’s no supernatural agency involved in that,” said Pierce. “If it is ‘the man,’ the man is flesh like Mother said, and the man has to move like any other man.”
“When did your mother tell you it was the man?”
“Excuse me,” said Ryan quietly. “Gifford said that some time ago. She didn’t really know any more than any of us did. That was her speculation. Let’s stick to what we do know. As Randall said, this is an individual.”
“Yes,” said Randall, at once taking command again, “and if we put our information together with that of Lightner and Dr. Larkin from California, we have every reason to believe this individual had a unique genome. He has some ninety-two chromosomes in a double helix exactly like that of a human, but that is, very simply, twice the number of chromosomes in a human being, and we know that the proteins and enzymes in his blood and cells are different.”
Pierce could not stop thinking of his mother, could not escape the image of her lying in the sand, which he himself had not actually seen, and now was doomed to see in various forms forever. Had she been frightened? Had this thing hurt her? How did she get to the water’s edge? He stared down at the table.
Randall was talking.
“It is liberating to understand,” said Randall, “that it is one male, and one which can be stopped, that whatever the history of this being, whatever mysteries shroud its inception, conception or whatever we wish to call it, it is one and can be apprehended.”