City of Masks

37

Cree sat for an hour in the relative calm of her hotel room. Joyce had ordered her to bed and then had gone off to her own room to call every Dupree and Tricou in the current phone book. For the first hour or two, she also called Cree every now and again, ostensibly to share some thought, but really, they both knew, to make sure she was staying put.

Paul's comments about remediating Mike gnawed at Cree's stomach. Now her memory conjured only their occasional fights, the miffs and tiffs and little hurts. Mike looked at her with reproach in his eyes. She knew it was true, and she couldn't live with her betrayal. Damn Paul, she thought. Another undoing.

She couldn't go on like this much longer. In her thoughts, she repeated a mantra she had cobbled together from bits of Zen and Taoist and yoga philosophy: Out of weakness grows strength, she chanted inwardly. From confusion emerges resolve. In yielding is the root of resistance.

These were the paradoxes, it increasingly seemed, by which she lived.

To be brave enough to face the boar-headed ghost and knowledgeable enough to understand its demented worldview, she had to become vulnerable enough to see it, to know it. To be strong enough to combat Lila's weakness, she had to know Lila's weakness in herself. To possess a strong enough sense of self to survive the encounters, she had to endure absolute uncertainty as to who she was. She had to find her husband so she could let him go forever.

And she had done these things, except the last. Surprisingly, out of all the confusion, all the wounds physical and emotional, she did feel a curious strength and resolve. It was as if the events of the last few days and nights had stripped away everything superfluous, leaving only this single, hard grain of defiance at her very center. It was tiny but durable – a starting place.

But there was a problem, an irritant to which her thoughts increasingly gravitated. It jangled in her mind like a discordant musical tone, a warning buzzer in the distance. The more she pondered, the more inconsistencies she found in her theory of events.

Richard Beauforte had raped Lila, that much was certain: the boar mask had borne it out, and it was perfectly consistent with Lila's psychological state and Charmian's attitude. But there was a clear divide between these normal-world facts and what Cree had experienced at Beauforte House. Something didn't fit. The simplest question was: If the boar-headed ghost was Richard, who was the ghost in the library? Who was the man who lay dying and sending his thoughts to that little girl on the swing? And what of the beating motion, the rage and accusation that went with it? There were a thousand shadings of feeling accompanying each manifestation, and they just didn't jibe.

And what of the other phenomena that Lila had described – the snake, that wolf? After finding that the boar-headed man was not an epiphenomenal manifestation brewed from Lila's subconscious, Cree had less confidence that the others could be so easily dismissed.

Obviously, the boar-headed man was not a perimortem experience, but rather a vivid, crucial memory replaying itself. But she'd never come near his dying experience. Could there be any truth to Joyce's suggestion, the idea that the ghost was a manifestation of Ron's subconscious? The idea didn't explain the boar mask, but at this point, disturbingly, she couldn't totally discard the theory. Anything seemed possible.

But Cree rebelled against the idea. Though she couldn't say why, she could swear the manifestation originated from a dying man. Maybe it was her sense of Ron, the lack of the psychic "buzz" she'd expect from a person with the capacity to project such a powerful psi phenomenon.

So maybe she should reconsider the ghost in the library. Could one dying man's mental processes manifest as two such clearly different entities – his death experience being played out only in the library, his paradoxical, self-punishing memories playing out only upstairs?

It was vaguely possible, but again her instincts rebelled. The two ghosts felt so different. The dying man in the library just didn't seem to be the sort of person who could do what the boar-headed man did. But more important was the dimensional difference between them, as clear as that between a video and a living person. The revenant replaying his death in the library was as emotionally rich and complex as he was physically insubstantial, and was rigidly locked into a very limited repertoire of acts, thoughts, and feelings. By contrast, the boar-headed man was narrow, one-dimensional, yet very solid and physical. He was also one of the most intentional, most adaptive ghosts Cree had ever encountered.

She puzzled over it for several hours, playing theories through to their ramifications. Only one stood up at all: that maybe there were indeed two ghosts but only one dying man. Maybe Richard Beauforte had been a Jekyll and Hyde personality, literally and clinically suffering from multiple personality disorder. One personality – internally consistent, probably not even aware of his alter ego – was the decent man, good citizen, loving father, who had died of a heart attack on the library floor. The other was the sadistic, lust-charged creature, in life always concealing itself from its benevolent twin and only occasionally set free to act on its own. And at Richard's death, that part of him had taken on an independent mental existence of a totally different order: physically substantial, kinetic, highly adaptive yet still locked into reliving the searingly intense act that had defined, distilled, its nature.

A multiple personality revenant: Cree suffered a sudden reprise of fear at the thought. How could you untangle such a sick and double being? At first glance, she thought that if you let the dying man in the library go free, let him finish dying, the ghost upstairs would vanish as well. But maybe not. Maybe it would continue on, so divorced from its origins as a living being and from its dying experience that it had no death left to accomplish.

The scenario also left the beating motion to figure in. Another dying memory? Or maybe the beating man was yet another entity, the much older ghost of John Frederick murdering Lionel.

Too many possibilities. None of them quite right, none quite wrong enough to dismiss. She stewed about it until she decided there was only one way to find out. Just the thought made her stomach clench.

But there didn't seem to be a choice. You had to fight back. Push the envelope. Couldn't run away with your tail between your legs.

She waited until almost midnight, when she was sure Joyce wouldn't try to call her. Then she dressed and quietly slipped out of the room and down the somnolent midnight corridors of the hotel. She felt scared to the edge of hysteria, but on another level she had never in her life felt more thoroughly ready.

She entered the now familiar hush of the house with an out-of-control pulse: The memories of the pursuit and the fall were too fresh to overcome. Leaving the lights off, she reset the security panel and headed back into the house, groping her way toward the library.

The silence screamed in her ears.

There was no guaranteeing her multiple personality theory was correct, but it was worth a try. If indeed both ghosts were manifested from a single man, the manifestation seen in its moment of death on the library floor would be the one most likely to reveal the key to the boar-headed entity. In any case, she knew she couldn't cope with the half man, half animal. Her panic was still right there, just beneath the surface. The fear reflexes were too strong. She'd only flee again, mindless, and be pursued and probably die, or worse, this time.

So she'd seek the dying man's experience. She'd have to pierce through those outer layers, find the core, the dying moment.

She found her way through the kitchen and down the hallway into the west wing, ears burning with the expectation of hearing that gut-wrenching, whimpering cry. But the house was silent, holding its musty breath.

The library was a cave of darkness. She walked slowly forward, found the piano, slid her fingers lightly along the smooth keys, veered a little left to find the back of one of the fireplace wingback chairs. From there, she went straight back until she bumped the claw-foot table. Moving to the right, she guided herself with her fingertips along the table's edge until her other hand found the chair she'd sat in the first two times. Deep in the corner, it would give the best vantage in the room.

Richard? she called. A thought like a secret.

She turned to sit in the chair and started to lower herself into it, then leapt up again with a shriek.

She had almost sat on somebody.

She was afraid to budge. Incapable of moving. She had seen two thighs, right beneath her, and they'd shifted as she'd glanced back.

She backed away two steps until she bumped into the bookshelves behind her. She'd have to run to her left, along the wall of the room. There was some furniture in the way, a table, a floor lamp, but she couldn't remember exactly where.

She could see him better now. In the chair. A man-shaped cloud, coalescing and taking on detail. A man in a dark gray suit. His head was turned, so she couldn't quite see his whole face from this angle, but clearly he wore no boar mask. On the claw-footed table at his side was a tray with decanters and bottles, and an ashtray from which he lifted a cigar. He put it to his lips, drew and exhaled a faint plume of smoke that Cree smelled. Then he took up a cut-crystal glass, and she tasted the liquor in it. Amaretto, fiery almond-sweet.

It gave the ghost no satisfaction. He was too unhappy, too preoccupied. He turned toward her, and Cree saw it was Richard Beauforte, who looked at his cigar with distaste and set it down. He sipped some more amaretto and put the glass down, too.

He stood up unsteadily and thought, A little too much to drink. He was unhappy. He was burdened. He was dealing with a problem that was vast and horrible, that made him too angry and sad to think about. Whenever his thoughts came too close, his mind sparked with rage and sorrow and regret. As Cree pushed herself back against the bookshelves, he walked slowly to the circle of chairs at the fireplace and stood for a moment just watching the gas fire that burned in the grate.

There has to be a way, he was thinking. To piece a family together again. My fault, my responsibility to fix it. But how?

Abruptly he wanted his cigar again, something to occupy his fingers. He returned from the fireplace toward Cree, and she could see his face clearly, a high forehead above the suffering eyes of a man who hadn't slept and who had terrible things on his mind. He lurched slightly as he walked, A little drunk, found the cigar, puffed it back to life. Saw the rest of the liquor in the glass and despondently thought, What the hell, and drained it. Dull the pain.

She will never understand. She'll never forgive, he was thinking as he walked away. And she will never accept her share of the blame. Cree saw the image of Charmian in his thoughts.

He detoured to the piano, where he stood and plinked a few plaintive notes. How to piece together anything like a family again? How to recover the bond? Not to mention the Beauforte name, the pride, the posterity? I can't do it. Beyond me. In desperation, his thoughts fanned out, seeking comfort, seeking an answer. Abruptly he thought of Bradford, the perpetually boyish, mischievous face, that offhand good humor, the needed leavening he had always brought to the household, the companionship for each member, and for an instant missed him terribly. Irony of ironies, the one person who could help would be Brad. Brad who was dead dead dead, God damn him to hell anyway.

Richard's emotions swirled red and black and sick green, anger and guilt and regret and loss, and he brought a fist down on the piano keys in a discordant explosion before he lurched away toward the fireplace again. There seemed nowhere for his thoughts to turn. He couldn't breathe right. When he got back to the circle of chairs there, he felt a twinge of pain in his gut, very strong this time, and thought, Ulcer acting up. And no wonder. Uneasy, he sat down on the edge of one of the chairs and checked his watch. The amaretto had left a displeasing, almost oily aftertaste. Or maybe it was the cigar.

Talk to Lila? Or do what Charm says and try to pretend it didn't happen? Maybe it will all heal over somehow. Only two hours until she goes back to school. Time to decide.

The thought of Lila hurt him terribly, an emotional pang that merged with the growing physical pain in his lungs and stomach and bowels, and suddenly he realized something was wrong. Cree could feel it, too: the paralyzed lungs, the burn in his stomach and the acid electric radiant pain shooting down into his lower belly and groin and legs. He stood up quickly, lost his balance, fell against the mantel to stabilize himself. Not right, he was thinking. Not right, this isn't ulcer.

He turned toward the door, realizing that his thoughts weren't right either, he was confused. "Charmian?" he called. He realized he didn't know if she was in the house, couldn't remember just when this was. The pain gored him again and he doubled over, went to his knees on the carpet. The cigar tumbled out of his fingers and he saw it there on the carpet and knew how angry Charmian would be if he put a spot in it. He ground out the ash with his fingers and only afterward realized it had burned him. Cree's fingers tingled.

"Charm, honey, can you…" and he didn't know what he wanted of her. Where was she? "… help me?" Or maybe she had gone out. Or was that yesterday? He lunged to his feet and took two quick strides toward the door but fell full out before he could reach it. No air. His legs refused to work, and the pain was everywhere now, he was a ball of pain. The amaretto taste was too strong and wouldn't fade and it surrounded him and it wasn't right, and abruptly he knew he'd been poisoned. Every labored breath was full of its suffocating stink. He flopped on the rug, trying to get to his hands and knees but the room tilted and he fell heavily on his side.

Josephine! his thoughts cried. Her face came clearly to mind. He was experiencing a telescoped, dreamlike memory, all of it rushing at him together, a flickering movie played many times too fast. Faces and names, Josephine and Charmian and Brad and Ron and Lila and further back, Father! and Mama!, and others Cree didn't know. And then the beating, beating, beating, the intolerable rage and the revulsion of it, the self-hatred and regret and compassion and fear of what the future held and the beating going on anyway, completely out of control. The horror of feeling such abandon, letting go into something so animal, knowing it had always been there and was impermissible but unstoppable, too.

And abruptly he knew for certain he was dying.

Cree had felt that recognition before, at once deeply familiar and impossibly strange. With the knowledge came the sense of everything being interrupted at just the wrong time: all the gestures of life, so desperately needing closure, so unresolved and incomplete. So wrong.

"Charmian!" he shouted. He doubled again on the floor like a grub brought out of the soil and contorting in the sunlight. "Charmian!" And there was no answer. No, she was gone today. 'Josephine?" Another call for help. "Josephine!" This time more of an accusation – he felt betrayed by her. But she was gone, too. Or was she, yet? He didn't know when he was, time was folding upon itself in liquid, doubling loops. "Josephine! Charm, don't let her go! She – " And he didn't know what he was going to say. It was urgent, but it had vanished from his mind.

Again Cree saw a glimpse of the nanny's mahogany-dark face, her resolute mouth, her steady, relentless eyes. And there was no refuge in her, or in Charmian. His thoughts fled to Ron with concern: poor innocent Ro-Ro. Ro-Ro would never understand – this would destroy him just as it destroyed Lila. He'd failed his son, too.

And then he was just dying and all the thoughts fused into one thing, his life distilled down into what really mattered, and it was Lila, and Lila was a little girl, that day when the air was so nice and they'd found themselves in the backyard and for once there wasn't something else pressing that had to be done, and they'd both just been there together, father and daughter.

Overcome, Cree took a step toward the convulsing figure. "Daddy?" she blurted. "Daddy!" He couldn't die, not now.

Now the ghost existed only as a memory of that moment. He'd pushed her on the swing, so high, up into the branches, and they'd both laughed and it had been so complete, just doing that. So simple. There was no need to say anything and she was so happy and he was so complete. A moment of simple harmony that wrote its shape on his soul.

Richard arched in a last wave of pain, clinging to the memory, the one refuge for his tortured heart: the image of her way up and giddy on the swing, hair and skirts trailing behind, skinny legs stuck out straight and mouth wide with laughter. He sent his love toward her on her upward free arc, hoping she'd know it and carry it with her always, praying that in some way this was what she'd carry with her. This and not the other.

And then the form on the rug stopped convulsing and the girl on the swing broke into a million crazy fragments, shards of a broken mirror. After a moment the solid-looking man became a haze again, his body-ghost dissipating. The room seen through his eyes faded and it was dark and Cree was alone again, weeping. She sobbed so hard it felt as though she'd turn inside out. She fell to her hands and knees and cried until it was as if she'd vomited and she was weak and empty but it was done with for now.

She used her flashlight only once, to search the floor where she'd seen him fall. And she found the little burn mark in the splendid, faded carpet. She put her finger on it and almost felt the searing ash again. Then she put away the light and groped her way out of the room, blind from darkness and tears.