The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,351

She sprang up off the bench and threw herself in my arms. “Tell me! What is it?”

He was gone. A gust of heated breeze moved the towering shoots of bamboo. Nothing but shadows there. Nothing but the rank closeness of the garden. And a gradual drop in temperature. As if the door to a furnace room had been swung shut.

I closed my eyes, holding her as firmly as I could, trying not to shake right out of my shoes, and to comfort her, while I memorized what I had seen. A malicious young man, smiling coldly as he stood behind her, clothes prim and dark and without detail as if the entire energy of the being were absorbed in the lustrous eyes and the white teeth and the gleaming skin. Otherwise he had been the man whom so many others had described.

She was now quite hysterical. Her hand was clamped over her mouth, and she was swallowing her sobs. She pushed away from me roughly. And ran up the small overgrown stairs to the path.

“Deirdre!” I called out. But she was already out of sight in the darkness. I glimpsed a smear of white through the distant trees, and then I did not even hear her footfall any longer.

I was alone in the old botanical garden, and it was dark, and I was mortally afraid for the first time in my life. I was so afraid that I became angry. I started to follow her, or rather the path she had taken, and I forced myself not to run, but to take one firm step after another until at last I saw the distant lights of the dormitories, and the service road behind them, and heard the traffic, and felt once again that I was safe.

Entering the freshman dormitory, I inquired of the gray-haired woman at the desk as to whether Deirdre Mayfair had just come in. She had. Safe and sound, I thought.

“It’s supper now, sir. You can leave a message if you like.”

“Yes, of course, I’ll call her later.” I took out a small plain envelope, wrote Deirdre’s name on it, then wrote a note explaining once more that I was at the hotel if she wished to contact me, and placing my card in the envelope with the note, I sealed the envelope and gave it to the woman for delivery, and went out.

Without mishap I reached the hotel, went to my room, and rang London. It was an hour before my call could be put through, during which time I lay there on the bed, with the phone beside me, and all I could think was, I’ve seen him. I’ve seen “the man.” I’ve seen “the man” for myself. I’ve seen what Petyr saw and what Arthur saw. I’ve seen Lasher with my own eyes.

Scott Reynolds, our director, was calm but adamant when I finally made the connection.

“Get the hell out of there. Come home.”

“Take a deep breath, Scott. I haven’t come this far to be frightened off by a spirit we have studied from afar for three hundred years.”

“This is how you use your own judgment, Aaron? You who know the history of the Mayfair Witches from beginning to end? The thing isn’t trying to frighten you. It’s trying to entice you. It wants you to torment the girl with your inquiries. It’s losing her, and you’re its hope of getting her back. The aunt, whatever else she may be, is on to the truth. You make that girl talk to you about what she’s been through and you’ll give that spirit the energy it wants.”

“I’m not trying to make her do anything, Scott. But I don’t think she is winning her battle. I’m going back to New Orleans. I want to be near at hand.”

Scott was on the verge of ordering me to leave when I pulled rank. I was older than he was. I had declined the appointment as director. Hence he’d received it. I was not going to be ordered off this case.

“Well, this is like offering a bromide to a person who’s burning to death, but don’t drive back to New Orleans. Take the train.”

That was a surprisingly welcome suggestion. No dark dismal shoulderless roads through the Louisiana swampland. But a nice cheerful, crowded train.

The following day, I left a note for Deirdre that I would be at the Royal Court in New Orleans. I drove the rental car to Dallas and took the train back to New Orleans from there.