“Mercy Hospital,” said Ryan. “They’re ready for her. The Mayfair Floor. We’ll meet you there. You haven’t seen Dr. Larkin, have you?”
Michael had on his jacket within seconds. He drank the glass of orange juice Eugenia pushed at him, as she reminded him in no uncertain terms that he had had no supper, that it was eleven o’clock at night.
“Henri, go bring the car around. Hurry.”
Rowan alive. Rowan would be at Mercy Hospital in less than an hour. Rowan coming home. Goddamnit to hell, I knew it, knew she would come back, but not like this!
He hurried down to the front hall, taking his keys from Eugenia, and his wallet and stuffing it in his pocket. Money clip. Didn’t need it. Mayfair Floor. Where he himself had lain after the heart attack, hooked to machines and listening to them, like the grinding of that Victrola. And she was going to be there.
“Listen to me, Eugenia, there’s something real important you gotta do,” he said. “Go upstairs to my room. There’s an old Victrola on the floor. Wind it and start the record. OK?”
“Now? At this hour of the night? For what?”
“Just do it. Tell you what. Bring it down to the parlor. That will make it easier. Oh, never mind, you can’t carry it. Just go up there, and play that record a few times and then go to bed.”
“Your wife is found, your wife is alive, and you’re headed to the hospital to see her, and you don’t know whether she’s all right or been hit in the head or what, and you’re telling me to go play a phonograph record.”
“Right. You got it all exactly right.”
There was the car, a great dark fish sliding beneath the oaks. He hurried down the steps, turning quickly to Eugenia:
“Do it!” he said, and went out. “The point is, she is alive.” He climbed into the backseat of the limo. “Take off.” He slammed the door. “She is alive, and if she is alive, she’ll hear me, I’ll talk to her, she’ll tell me what happened. Jesus Christ, Julien, she is alive. The hour is not yet come.”
As the car moved onto Magazine Street and headed downtown, the rest of the poem came back to him, all of it, a long string of dark and dreamy words. He heard Julien’s voice, with the fancy French accent illuminating the letters, just as surely as the old monks had illuminated letters when they painted them bright red or gold and decorated them with tiny figures and leaves.
Beware the watchers in that hour
Bar the doctors from the house
Scholars will but nourish evil
Scientists would raise it high.
“Isn’t it the most terrible thing?” Henri was saying. “All of those poor women. To think of it, all of them dead the same way.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Michael. He wanted a cigarette. He could smell that sweet cheroot of Julien’s. The fragrance clung to his clothes. Like a bolt it came back. Julien lighting that cheroot, inhaling and then waving to him. And the deep glint of the brass bed in the room, and Violetta singing to all those men.
“What poor women? What are you talking about? It’s like I’m Rip Van Winkle. Give me the time.”
“The time is eleven-thirty p.m., boss,” said Henri. “I’m talking about the other Mayfair women, Miss Mona’s mother dying uptown, and poor Miss Edith downtown, though best I can remember I never met her, and I don’t even remember the name of the other lady, and the lady in Houston and the one after that.”
“You’re telling me all these women are dead? These Mayfair women?”
“Yes, boss. All died the same way, Miss Bea said. Mr. Aaron called. Everybody was calling. We didn’t even know you were home. The lights were out upstairs in that room. How would I know you were asleep on the floor?”
Henri went on, something about looking all over the house for Michael, saying to Eugenia this and that, and going outside to look for him, and on and on. Michael didn’t hear it. He was watching the decayed old brick buildings of Magazine Street fly by; he was hearing the poem.
Pain and suffering as they stumble
Blood and fear before they learn.
Twenty-five
SO THIS IS Stolov. He knew the moment he stepped off the plane. They had tracked him all the way. And here was the big man, waiting for him, a bit overmuscular in his black raincoat, with large eyes of a pale indistinct color which nevertheless shone rather bright like clear glass.
The man had near-invisible blond eyelashes and bushy brows, and his hair was light. He looked Norwegian to Yuri. Not Russian. Erich Stolov.
“Stolov,” Yuri said, and, shifting his bag to the left, he extended his hand.
“Ah, you know me,” said the man. “I wasn’t sure that you would.” Accent, Scandinavian with a touch of something else. Eastern Europe.
“I always know our people,” said Yuri. “Why have you come to New Orleans? Have you been working with Aaron Lightner? Or are you here simply to meet me?”
“That is what I’ve come to explain,” said Stolov, placing his hand very lightly on Yuri’s back as they followed the carpeted corridor together, passengers streaming by them, the hollow space itself seeming to swallow all warm sounds. The man’s tone was very cooperative and open. Yuri didn’t quite believe it.
“Yuri,” said the other. “You shouldn’t have left the Motherhouse, but I understand why you did. But you know we are an authoritarian order. You know obedience is important. And you know why.”
“No, you tell me why. I am excommunicated now. I feel no obligation to talk to you. I came to see Aaron. That’s the only reason I am here.”
“I know that, of course I do,” said the other, nodding. “Here, shall we stop for coffee?”
“No, I want to go to the hotel. I want to meet with Aaron as soon as I can.”
“He couldn’t see you now if he wanted to,” said Stolov in a low conciliatory voice. “The Mayfair family is in a state of crisis. He is with them. Besides, Aaron is an old and loyal member of the Talamasca. He won’t be happy that you’ve come so impulsively. Your show of affection may even embarrass him.”
Yuri was silently infuriated by these words. He didn’t like this big blond-haired man.
“So I will find him and find out for myself. Listen, Stolov, I knew when I left I was out. Why are you talking this way to me-so patient, so agreeable? Does Aaron know you are here?”
“Yuri, you are valuable to the Order. Anton is a new Superior General. Perhaps David Talbot would have handled things much better. It’s in times of transition that we sometimes lose people whom we come, very much, to miss.”
The man gestured to the empty coffee shop, where china cups shimmered on smooth Formica tables. Smell of weak, American coffee, even here in this town.
“No, I want to go on,” said Yuri. “I am going to find Aaron. Then the three of us can talk, if you like. I want to tell Aaron I’m here.”
“You can’t do that now. Aaron is at the hospital,” said Stolov. “Rowan Mayfair has been found. Aaron is with the family. Aaron is in danger. That’s why it’s so important you listen to what I have to say. Don’t you see? This misunderstanding amongst us-it came about because we were trying to protect Aaron. And you.”
“Then you can explain it to both of us.”
“Hear me out first,” the man said gently. “Please.”
Yuri realized the man was virtually blocking his path. The man was larger than he was. He wasn’t so much a menace as he was a great obstacle, forceful and stubborn and believing in himself. His face was agreeable and intelligent, and once again he spoke in the same even, patient tone.