He was holding to the bedpost with his left hand.
“Lasher!”
Perfectly monstrous suddenly-a man who was taller than an ordinary man. A slight figure, but the perfect incarnation of menace with its blue eyes fixed on him intently, mouth vivid beneath the black gleam of the mustache, white fingers long and bony and almost twined around the bedpost. Monstrous. Kill it. Now.
He was on his feet in an instant, but Stolov had him around the waist. “No, Michael, no, don’t hurt him. You can’t do it!” And then another man, a stranger, was grabbing him around the neck, and Aaron was begging Michael to hold off, to wait.
The figure by the bed remained motionless, secure. It wiped at its tears with a slow languid right hand.
“Hold on, Michael. Hold on,” said Aaron. “Stolov, I want you to let him go. You too, Norgan. Step back, Michael, we have it surrounded.”
“Only if he will not kill it,” said Stolov. “He must not kill it.”
“The hell I won’t,” said Michael. He arched his back, trying to throw off Stolov, but the other man had his arm too tightly around Michael’s neck. Stolov loosened his grip, catching his breath.
The creature looked at him. The tears continued to move, silent, eloquent.
“I’m in your hands, Mr. Stolov,” Lasher said. “I’m all yours.”
Michael jammed his elbow into the gut of the man behind him, then flung him backwards against the wall. He threw Stolov to the side. He was on Lasher in an instant, hands locked around his neck, the creature drawing in his breath in ragged terror, and grasping at Michael’s hair. Down they went onto the carpet. But the two other men had Michael, they were pulling him loose, wrenching him with all their strength, and Aaron, even Aaron was pulling his fingers off the creature. Aaron. Dear God.
For a moment Michael almost blacked out. The pain in his chest was sharp and relentless. He felt it in his shoulder and then going down his left arm. They had let him go because he was sitting back against the fireplace, unable now to hurt anybody, and Lasher, still struggling for breath, was climbing slowly, groggily to his feet. A lean figure in the flowing black cassock. The men stood on either side of Michael.
“Wait, Michael!” pleaded Aaron. “There are four of us against it.”
“Don’t hurt it, Michael,” said Stolov, tone as gentle as before.
“You’re letting it get away,” said Michael in a hoarse whisper. But when he looked up he saw the tall willowy figure peering down at him, the blue eyes still filled with tears, and the tears running down the smooth white cheeks. If Christ came to you, Michael thought, you would want him to look like this. This was the way painters had rendered him.
“I am not escaping,” said Lasher calmly. “I will go when they take me, Michael. The men from the Talamasca. I need them now. And they know it. And they will not let you hurt me again.” He turned towards the figure in the bed. “I came to see my beloved. I had to see her before they took me away.”
Michael tried to get to his feet. He was dizzy and the pain came again. Goddamnit, Julien, give me the strength to do it. Damnation. The gun, the gun is there by the bed. It’s right on top of the table, that big gun! He tried to say it out loud to Aaron. Shoot it. Pull the trigger and blow a hole in its head as big as an eye!
Stolov knelt in front of him. Stolov said: “Be calm, Michael, be calm. Just don’t try to hurt him. We will not allow him to leave this place, until we ourselves take him away.”
“I am ready,” said Lasher.
“Michael,” said Stolov. “Look at him. He is helpless now. He is in our power. Please be calm.”
Aaron stared at the creature as if spellbound.
“I warned you,” said Michael softly.
“Do you really want to kill me?” asked Lasher, tears welling continuously as if he had as many of them as a little child. “Do you hate me so very much? Just for trying to be alive?”
“You killed her,” Michael whispered. It was such a small, insignificant sound. “You did that to her. You killed our child.”
“Don’t you want to know my side of it, Father?” said the creature.
“I want to kill you,” said Michael.
“Oh, come now. Can you be so cold and unfeeling? Can you not care what was done to me? Can you not care why I am here? Do you think I meant to hurt her?”
Grasping the mantelpiece with one hand and Aaron’s hand with the other, Michael finally managed to get to his feet. He was weak all over, almost nauseated. He stood there, breathing slowly, thankful that the pain was gone, and staring at Lasher.
How beautiful the smooth face, how beautiful the soft black mustache and the close-cut beard. The Jesus of Dürer’s painting. And the deepest most exquisite blue eyes, mirrors to some unfathomable and seemingly wondrous soul.
“Oh yes, Michael, you want to know. You want to hear everything. And they will not let you kill me, will you, gentlemen? Not even Aaron will allow it. Not until I’ve said all I have to say.”
“Lies,” whispered Michael.
The creature swallowed as if struck by the condemnation, and then once again he wiped his eye with the back of his right hand. He did it as a child would, on the playground, and then he pressed his lips together and took a deep breath as if he would give way, as Michael had before-to sobs as well as tears.
Behind him, on the bed, Rowan lay oblivious, eyes staring into space, undisturbed, protected perhaps-unreachable as before.
“No, Michael,” he said. “No lies. That I promise you. We know better, don’t we, than to believe the truth will excuse anything. But lies you will not hear.”
Once again, the dining room. Only this time the light coming through the windows was the dim golden light of the lamps in the yard.
They sat around the table in the shadows. Both the doors were closed. Lasher sat in the place of authority, at the head of the table, one great white hand splayed on the wood before him, staring down at it as if he were dazed.
He raised his head and looked about him. He looked at the murals as though taking up one detail after another and releasing it again to the gloom. He looked at their faces. He looked at Michael, who sat near him just to his right.
The other man, Clement Norgan, was still sore from Michael’s jabbing him, still sore from having been cracked against the wall. He sat across the table, red-faced, trying to catch his breath still, drinking sips from a glass of water. His eyes moved from the creature to Michael. Stolov sat to Norgan’s left.
Aaron was beside Michael, holding on to his shoulder, holding his hand. Michael could feel the tightness of Aaron’s grip.
Lasher.
“Yes, in this house, again,” the creature said, voice tremulous yet deep and confident in its own beauty, its perfect accentless enunciation.
“Let him speak,” said Aaron. “We are four men. We are resolved he will not leave here. Rowan is resting untroubled. Let him talk.”
“That is correct,” said Stolov. “We are together. Let him explain himself to us all. You are entitled to such an explanation, Michael. No one contests it.”
“Trickster always,” said Michael. “You sent her nurses away. You sent the guards away. So clever. They believed you, Father Ashlar, or did you use some other name?”
Lasher gave a long, slow, bitter smile. “Father Ashlar,” he whispered, running his pink tongue along his lip and then closing his lips quietly. For one instant, Michael saw Rowan in him, saw the resemblance as he had seen on Christmas Day. The fine cheeks, the forehead, even the tender line of the long eyes. But in the depth of the color and in the bright open look to them, they were Michael’s eyes.