"I shall post this as soon as I possibly can. And until such time, I shall carry the letter with me, on my person, hoping for what it's worth that if anything happens to me the letter will be found.
"But as I write this I do not think anything will happen to me! It is over, this chapter! It has come to a ghastly and bloody end. Stuart was part of it. And God only knows what role the spirit played in it. But I shall not tempt the demon further by turning back. Every impulse in my being tells me to get away from here. And if I forget this for a moment, I have the haunting memory of Stuart to guide me, Stuart gesturing to me from the top of the stairs to go away.
"If we never talk in London, please pay heed to the advice I give you now. Send no one else to this place. At least not now. Watch, wait, as is our motto. Consider the evidence. Try to draw some lesson from what has taken place. And above all, study the Mayfair record. Study it deeply and put its various materials in order.
"My belief, for what it is worth at such a moment, is that neither Lasher nor Stella had a hand in the death of Stuart. Yet his remains are under that roof.
"But the council may consider the evidence at its leisure. Send no one here again.
"We cannot hope for public justice with regard to Stuart. We cannot hope for legal resolutions. Even in the investigation that will inevitably follow tonight's horrors, there will be no search of the Mayfair house and its grounds. And how could we ever demand such a step be taken?
"But Stuart will never be forgotten. And I am man enough, even in my twilight years, to believe that there must be a reckoning--both for Stuart, and for Petyr--though with whom or with what that reckoning will be I do not know.
"I do not speak of retribution. I do not speak of revenge. I speak of illumination, understanding, and above all, resolution. I speak of the final light of truth.
"These people, the Mayfairs, do not know who they are anymore. I tell you the young woman was an innocent. I'm convinced of it. But we know. We know; and Lasher knows. And who is Lasher? Who is this spirit who chose to reveal his pain to me; who chose to show to me his very tears?"
Arthur posted this letter from St. Louis, Missouri. A bad carbon was sent two days later from New York, with a brief postscript, explaining that Arthur had booked passage home, and would be sailing at the end of the week.
After two days at sea, Arthur rang the ship's doctor, complaining of chest pains and asking for a standard remedy for indigestion. A half hour later, the doctor discovered Arthur dead of an apparent heart attack. The time was half past six on the evening of September 7, 1929.
Arthur had written one more brief letter on shipboard the day before his death. It was in his robe pocket when he was found.
In it, he said that he was not well, and suffering from violent seasickness, which he hadn't experienced in years. There were times when he feared he was really ill, and might not see the Motherhouse again.
"There are so many things I want to discuss with you about the Mayfairs, so many ideas going through my head. What if we were to draw off that spirit? That is, what if we were to invite it to come to us?
"Whatever you do, do not send another investigator to New Orleans--not now, not while that woman, Carlotta Mayfair, lives."
Twenty-one
HE WAS KISSING her as his fingers stroked her breasts. The pleasure was so keen. Paralyzing. She tried to lift her head. But she couldn't move. The constant roar of the jet engines lulled her. Yes, this is a dream. Yet it seemed so real, and she was slipping back into it. Only forty-five minutes until they landed at New Orleans International. She ought to try to wake up. But then he kissed her again, forcing his tongue very gently between her lips, so gently yet forcefully, and his fingers touched her nipples, pinching them as if she were naked under the small woolen blanket. Oh, he knew how to do it, pinch them slowly but hard. She turned more fully towards the window, sighing, drawing up her knees against the side of the cabin. No one noticing her. First class half empty. Almost there.
Again, he pinched her nipples, just a little more cruelly, ah, so delicious. You cannot be too rough, really. Press your lips harder against mine. Fill me with your tongue. She opened her mouth against his, and then his fingers touched her hair, sending another, unexpected sensation through her, a light tingling. That was the miracle of it, that it was such a blending of sensations, like soft and bright colors mingling, the chills moving down her naked back and arms, and yet the heat pounding between her legs. Come inside me! I want to be filled up, yes, with your tongue, and with you, come in harder. It was enormous, yet smooth, bathed as it was in her fluids.
She came silently, shuddering beneath the blanket, her hair fallen down over her face, only dimly aware that she wasn't naked, that no one could be touching her, no one could be creating this pleasure. Yet it went on and on, her heart stopping, the blood pounding in her face, the shocks moving down through her thighs and her calves.
You are going to die if it doesn't stop, Rowan. His hand brushed her cheek. He kissed her eyelids. Love you ...
Suddenly, she opened her eyes. For a moment nothing registered. Then she saw the cabin. The little blind was drawn, and everything about her seemed a pale luminous gray, drenched in the sound of the engines. The shocks were still passing through her. She lay back in the large soft airline seat and yielded to them, rather like dim, beautifully modulated jolts of electricity, her eyes drifting sluggishly over the ceiling as she struggled to keep them open, to wake up.
God, how did she look after this little orgy? Her face must be flushed.
Very slowly, she sat up, smoothing back her hair with both hands. She tried to reinvoke the dream, not for the sensuality but for information, tried to travel back to the center of it, to know who he had been. Not Michael. No. That was the bad part.
Christ, she thought. I've been unfaithful to him with nobody. How strange. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. Very warm. She was still feeling the low, vibrant, debilitating pleasure even now.
"How long before we land in New Orleans?" she asked the stewardess who was passing.
"Thirty minutes. Seat belt buckled?"
She sat back, feeling for the buckled seat belt, and then letting herself go deliciously limp. But how could a dream do that, she thought. How could a dream carry it so far?
When she was thirteen, she used to have those dreams, before she knew they were natural or what to do about them. But she'd always wake before the finish. She couldn't help it. This time, it had just taken its own course. And the odd thing was, she felt violated, as if the dream lover had assaulted her. Now, that was really absurd. But it wasn't a good feeling, and it was extremely strong.
Violated ....
She raised her hands to her breasts under the blanket, covering them protectively. But that was nonsense, wasn't it? Besides, it wasn't rape at all.
"You want a drink before we land?"
"No. Coffee." She closed her eyes. Who had he been, her dream lover? No face, no name. Only the sense of someone more delicate than Michael, someone almost ethereal, or at least that was the word that came to her mind. The man had spoken to her, however, she was sure of it, but everything except the memory of the pleasure was gone.
Only as she sat up to drink the coffee did she realize there was a faint soreness between her legs. Possibly an aftereffect of the powerful muscular contractions. Thank God there was no one else near at hand, no one beside her or across the aisle from her. But then she never would have let it go so far if she hadn't been concealed, under the blanket. That is, if she could have forced herself awake. If she had had a choice.
She felt so sleepy!
Slowly she took a sip of the coffee and raised the white plastic shade.
Green swampland down there in the deepening afternoon sun. And the dark brown serpentine river curving around the distant city. She felt a sudden elation. Almost there. The sound of the engines grew harsher, louder with the plane's descent.
She didn't want to think about the dream anymore. S
he honestly wished it hadn't happened. In fact, it was dreadfully distasteful to her suddenly, and she felt soiled and tired and angry. Even a little revolted. She wanted to think about her mother, and about seeing Michael.
She had called Jerry Lonigan from Dallas. The parlor was open. And the cousins were already arriving. They had been calling all morning. The Mass was set for three P.M. and she wasn't to worry. She should just come on over from the Pontchartrain as soon as she arrived.