Lasher

Seven

LARK WAS SOUND asleep when the plane landed in New Orleans. It startled him to discover that they were already at the gate. Indeed, people were disembarking. The stewardess was beaming down at him, his raincoat dangling from her graceful arm. He felt a little embarrassed for a moment, as though he had lost some precious advantage; then he was on his feet.

He had a terrible headache, and he was hungry, and then the searing excitement of this mystery, this Rowan Mayfair offspring mystery, came back to him in the shape of a great burden. How could a rational man be expected to explain such a thing? What time was it? Eight a.m. in New Orleans. That meant it was only six a.m. back on the coast.

Immediately he saw the white-haired man waiting for him and realized it was Lightner before the man clasped his hand and said his own name. Very personable old guy; gray suit and all.

“Dr. Larkin. There’s been a family emergency. Neither Ryan nor Pierce Mayfair could be here. Let me take you to your hotel. Ryan will be in touch with us as soon as he can.” Same British polish that Lark had admired so much over the phone.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Lightner, but I have to tell you, I had a run-in with one of your colleagues in San Francisco. Not so good.”

Lightner was clearly surprised. They walked up the concourse together, Lightner’s profile rather grave for a moment and distant. “Who was this, I wonder,” he said with unconcealed annoyance. He looked tired, as if he had not slept all night.

Lark was feeling better now. The headache was dissipating. He was fantasizing about coffee and sweet rolls, and a dinner reservation at Commander’s Palace, and maybe an afternoon nap. And then he thought of the specimens. He thought of Rowan. That embarrassing excitement overcame him, and with it, an ugly feeling of being involved in something unwholesome, something all wrong.

“Our hotel is only a few blocks from Commander’s Palace,” said Lightner easily. “We can take you there this evening. Maybe we can persuade Michael to go with us. There has been…an emergency. Something to do with Ryan’s family. Otherwise Ryan would have been here himself. But this colleague of mine? Can you tell me what happened? Do you have luggage?”

“No, just my valise here, loaded for a one-night stand.” Like most surgeons, Lark liked being up at this hour. If he were back in San Francisco, he’d be in surgery right now. He was feeling better with every step he took.

They proceeded towards the bright warm daylight, and the busy gathering of cabs and limousines beyond the glass doors. It wasn’t terribly cold here. No, not as bitingly cold as San Francisco, not at all. But the light was the real difference. There was more of it. And the air stood motionless around you. Kind of nice.

“This colleague,” said Lark, “said his name was Erich Stolov. He demanded to know where the specimens were.”

“Is that so?” said Lightner with a slight frown. He gestured to the left, and one of the many limousines, a great sleek gray Lincoln, crawled out and towards them, its windows black and secretive. Lightner didn’t wait for the driver to come round. He opened the back door himself.

Gratefully, Lark climbed into the soft velvet gray interior, shifting over to the far seat, faintly disturbed by the smell of cigarette smoke lingering in the upholstery and stretching out his legs comfortably in the luxuriant space. Lightner sat beside him, and away the car sped instantly, in its own realm of darkness thanks to the tinted windows, suddenly shut off from all the airport traffic and the pure brilliance of the morning sun.

But it was comfortable, this car. And it was fast.

“What did Erich say to you?” asked Lightner, with deliberate concealing evenness.

Lark wasn’t fooled by it. “Stood right in front of me, demanding to know where the specimens were. Rude. Downright aggressive and rude. I can’t figure it. Was he trying to intimidate me?”

“You didn’t tell him what he wanted to know,” said Lightner softly and conclusively and looked out the darkened glass. They were on the highway, turning onto the freeway, and this place looked a little like any place-squat suburban buildings with names blaring from them, empty space, uncut grass, motels.

“Well, no, of course not. I didn’t tell him anything,” said Lark. “I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all. I told you Rowan Mayfair asked me to handle this confidentially. I’m here because of information you volunteered and because the family asked me to come. I’m not in a position really to turn over these specimens to anyone. In fact, I don’t think I could successfully retrieve them from the people who have them at this point. Rowan was specific. She wanted them tested in secret at a certain place.”

“The Keplinger Institute,” said Lightner gently and politely, as if reading this off a cue card on Lark’s forehead, his pale eyes calm. “Mitch Flanagan, the genetic genius, the man who worked with Rowan there before she decided not to stay in research.”

Lark didn’t say anything. The car floated soundlessly along the skyway. The buildings grew denser and the grass more unkempt.

“If you know, then why did this guy ask me?” Lark demanded. “Why did he stand in my path and try to force me to tell him all this? How did you find out, by the way? I’d like to know. Who are you? I would like to know that too.”

Lightner was looking away, weary, saddened.

“I told you there was a family emergency this morning, did I not?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to hear it. I didn’t mean to be insensitive on that account. I was mad about your friend.”

“I know,” said Lightner affably. “I understand. He should not have behaved that way. I’ll call the Motherhouse in London. I’ll try to find out why that happened. Or more truly, I’ll make certain that nothing like that ever happens again.” There was a little blaze of temper in the man’s eyes for an instant, and then something sour and fearful in his gaze. Very transitory. He smiled pleasantly. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Appreciate it,” said Lark. “How did you know about Mitch Flanagan and the Keplinger Institute?”

“You could call it a guess,” said Lightner. He was deeply disturbed by all this; that was plain even though his face was now a carefully painted picture of serenity, and his voice betrayed nothing but his tiredness, and a general low frame of mind.

“What is this emergency? What happened?”

“I don’t know all the details yet. Only that Pierce and Ryan Mayfair had to go to Destin, Florida, early this morning. They asked me to meet you. Seems something has happened to Ryan’s wife, Gifford. Again I’m not sure. I don’t know.”

“This Erich Stolov. You work with him?”

“Not directly. He was here two months ago. He’s a new generation of Talamasca. It’s the old story. I’ll find out why he behaved the way he did. The Motherhouse does not know the specimens are at the Keplinger Institute. If the younger members showed as much zeal at reading the files as they do for fieldwork, they could have figured it out.”

“What files, what do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s a long story. And never a particularly easy one to tell. I understand your reluctance to tell anyone about these specimens. I wouldn’t tell anyone else if I were you.”

“Is there any news on Rowan’s whereabouts?”

“Not a word. Except the old report’s been confirmed. That she and her companion were in Scotland, in Donnelaith.”

“What is all that about? Where is Donnelaith, Scotland? I’ve been all over the Highlands, hunting, fishing. I never heard of Donnelaith.”

“It’s a ruined village. At the moment it’s swarming with archaeologists. There is an inn there principally for tourists and people from universities. Rowan was seen there about four weeks ago.”

“Well, that’s old news. That’s no good. Nothing new is what I meant.”

“Nothing new.”

“This companion of hers, what did he look like?” Lark asked.

Lightner’s expression darkened slightly. Was this weariness or bitterness? Lark was baffled.

“Oh, you know more about him now than I do, don’t you?” asked Lightner. “Rowan sent you X-ray film, printouts of electroencephalograms, all of that sort of thing. Didn’t she send a picture?”

“No, she didn’t,” Lark said. “Who are you people, really?”

“You know, Dr. Larkin, I don’t honestly know the answer to that question. I suppose I never have. I’m just more frank with myself about it these days. Things happen. New Orleans works its spell on people. So do the Mayfairs. I was guessing on the tests; you might say I was trying to read your mind.”

Lark laughed. All this had been said so agreeably, and so philosophically. Lark sympathized with this man suddenly. In the dim light of the car, he also noticed things about him. That Lightner suffered from mild emphysema and that he had never smoked, and probably never been a drinker, and was fairly hale in a decade of programmed fragility-his eighties.

Lightner smiled, and looked out the window. The driver of the car was a mere dark shape behind the blackened glass.

Lark realized the car was loaded with all the standard amenities-the little television set, and the soft drinks tucked into ice in pockets on the middle doors.

What about coffee? When would they have coffee?

“There in the carafe,” said Lightner.

“Ah, you read my mind,” Lark said with a little laugh.

“It’s that time of morning, isn’t it?” said Lightner, and for the first time there was a little smile on his lips. He watched Lark open the carafe and discover the plastic cup in the side pocket. Lark poured the steaming coffee.

“You want some, Lightner?”

“No, thank you. Do you want to tell me what your friend Mitch Flanagan has found out?”

“Not particularly. I don’t want to tell anyone but Rowan. I called Ryan Mayfair for the money. That’s what Rowan instructed me to do. But she didn’t say anything about giving anybody the test results. She said she’d contact me when she could. And Ryan Mayfair says that Rowan may be hurt. Maybe even dead.”

“That’s true,” said Lightner. “It was good of you to come.”

“Hell, I’m worried about Rowan. I wasn’t too happy when Rowan left University. I wasn’t too happy that she up and got married. I wasn’t too happy that she left medicine. In fact, I was as astonished as if somebody had said, ‘The world ends today at three o’clock.’ I didn’t believe it all, until Rowan herself told me over and over.”

“I remember. She called you often last fall. She was very concerned about your disapproval.” It was said mildly like everything else. “She wanted your advice on the creation of Mayfair Medical. She was sure that when you realized she was serious about the center you would understand why she was no longer practicing, that there was a great deal involved.”

“Then you are a friend of hers, aren’t you? I mean not this Talamasca necessarily, but you.”

“I think I was her friend. I may have failed her. I don’t know. Maybe she failed me.” There was a hint of bitterness to it, maybe even anger. Then the man smiled pleasantly again.

“I have to confess something to you, Mr. Lightner,” said Lark, “I thought this Mayfair Medical was a pipe dream. Rowan caught me off guard. But I’ve since done a little investigating of my own. Obviously this family has the resources to create Mayfair Medical. I just didn’t know. I should have known, I suppose. Everybody was talking about it. Rowan is the smartest and best surgeon I ever trained.”

“I’m sure she is. Did she tell you anything about the specimens when she talked to you? You said she called from Geneva and that was February twelfth.”

“Again, I want to talk to Ryan, next of kin. Talk to the husband, see what is the right thing to do.”

“The specimens ought to have everyone at the Keplinger Institute quite astonished,” said Lightner. “I wish you would tell me the full extent of what Rowan sent. Let me explain my interest. Was Rowan herself in ill health when she spoke to you? Did she send any sort of medical material that pertained to her?”

“Yes, she did send samples of her own blood and tissue, but there’s no evidence she was sick.”

“Just different.”

“Yeah, I dare say. Different. You are right on that.”

Lightner nodded. He looked off again, out over what appeared to be a great sprawling cemetery, full of little marble houses with pointed roofs. The car sped on in the sparse traffic. There seemed so much space here. So much quiet. There was a seedy look to things, even a botched look. But Lark liked the openness, the sense of not being hampered by a moving traffic jam as he was always at home.

“Lightner, my position on this is really difficult,” he said. “Whether you are her friend or not.”

They were turning off already, gliding down past an old brick church steeple that seemed perilously close to the descending ramp. Lark felt relief when they reached the street, shabby though it was. Again, he liked the spacious feeling of things here, though all was a bit forlorn. Things moved slowly here. The South. A town.

“I know all that, Dr. Larkin,” said Lightner. “I understand. I know all about confidentiality and medical ethics. I know about manners and decency. People here know all about them. It’s rather nice, being here. We don’t have to talk about Rowan now if you don’t want to. Let’s have breakfast at the hotel, shall we? Perhaps you want to take a nap. We can meet at the First Street house later. It’s just a few blocks away. The family has arranged everything for you.”

“You know this is really very very serious,” said Lark suddenly. The car had come to a halt. They were in front of a little hotel with smart blue awnings. A doorman stood ready to open the limousine door.

“Of course it is,” said Aaron Lightner. “But it’s also very simple. Rowan gave birth to this strange child. Indeed, as we both know, he is not a child. He is the male companion seen with her in Scotland. What we want to know now is can he reproduce? Can he breed with his mother or with other human beings? Reproduction is the only real concern of evolution, isn’t it? If he was a simple one-and-only mutation, something created by external forces-radiation say, or some sort of telekinetic ability-well, we wouldn’t be all that concerned, would we? We might just catch up with him and ascertain whether or not Rowan is remaining with him of her own free will, and then…shoot him. Perhaps.”

“You know all about it, don’t you?”

“No, not all about it. That’s the disturbing thing. But I know this. If Rowan sent you those samples, it was because Rowan was afraid this thing could breed. Let’s go inside, shall we? I’d like to call the family about this incident in Destin. I’d also like to call the Talamasca about Stolov. I have rooms here too, you see. You might call it my New Orleans headquarters. I rather like the place.”

“Sure, let’s go.”

Before they reached the desk, Lark had regretted the small valise and the one change of clothes. He wasn’t going to be leaving here so soon. He knew it. The dim feeling of something unwholesome and menacing warred in him with a new surge of excitement. He liked this little lobby, the amiable southern voices surrounding him, the tall, elegant black man in the elevator.

Yes, he would have to do some shopping. But that was fine. Lightner had the key in hand. The suite was ready for Lark. And Lark was ready for breakfast.

Yeah, she was afraid of that all right, Lark thought, as they went up in the elevator. She had even said something like, If this thing can breed…

Of course he hadn’t known then what the hell she was talking about. But she’d known. Anyone else, you might think this was a hoax or something. But not Rowan Mayfair.

Well, he was too hungry just now to think about it anymore.