The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,384

later. There had been no such suspicious deaths among any young men in the departments who could conceivably be connected to Rowan. But one thing had emerged from the investigator’s talks in the bar. One young fireman, who admitted to knowing Rowan and liking her, said she was no mystery to him, rather she was an open book. “She’s a doctor; she likes saving people’s lives and she hangs around with us because we do the same thing.”

“Did Rowan actually say that to the young man?”

“Yes, she told him that. He made a joke about it. ‘Imagine, I went to bed with a brain surgeon. She fell in love with my medals. It was great while it lasted. You think if I pull somebody out of a burning building, she’ll give me another chance?’ ” Gander laughed. “She doesn’t know, Aaron. She’s hooked on saving people, and maybe she doesn’t even know why.”

“She has to know. She’s too good a doctor not to know,” I said. “Remember, this girl is a diagnostic genius. She must have known with the stepfather. Unless of course we’re wrong about the whole thing.”

“We’re not wrong,” said Gander. “What you’ve got here, Aaron, is a brilliant neurosurgeon descended from a family of witches, who can kill people just by looking at them; and on some level she knows it, she has to, and she spends every day of her life making up for it in the Operating Room, and when she goes out on the town it’s with some hero who’s just saved a kid from a burning attic, or a cop who’s stopped a drunk from stabbing his wife. She’s sort of mad, this lady. Maybe as mad as all the rest.”

In December of 1988, I went to California. I had been to the States in January to attend the funeral of Nancy Mayfair, and I deeply regretted not having gone on to the coast at that time to try to get a glimpse of Rowan. But no one had an inkling, then, that both Ellie and Graham would be dead within six months.

Rowan was now all alone in the house in Tiburon. I wanted to have a look at her, even if it was from a distance. I wanted to make some appraisal which depended upon my seeing her in the flesh.

By that time, we had not—thank God—turned up any more deaths in Rowan’s past. As the senior resident in neurosurgery, she was working a hectic if not inhuman schedule at the hospital, and I found it far more difficult to get a glimpse of her than I ever imagined. She left the hospital from a covered parking lot and drove into a covered garage at home. The Sweet Christine, moored at her very doorstep, was concealed entirely by a high redwood fence.

At last I entered University Hospital, sought out the doctors’ cafeteria, and hovered near it in a small visitors’ area for seven hours. To my knowledge Rowan never passed.

I resolved to follow her from the hospital only to discover that there was no way to discover when she might be leaving. When she arrived was also a mystery. There was no discreet way to press anyone for details. I could not risk hanging about in the area adjacent to the Operating Rooms. It wasn’t open to the public. The waiting room for the family members of those having surgery was strictly monitored. And the rest of the hospital was like a labyrinth. I didn’t know finally what to do.

I was thrown into consternation. I wanted to see Rowan, but I dreaded disturbing her. I could not bear the thought of bringing darkness into her life, of clouding the isolation from the past which seemed, on the surface, to have served her so well. On the other hand, if she was actually responsible for the deaths of six human beings! Well, I had to see her before I could make a decision. I had to see her.

Unable to come to any decision, I invited Gander for a drink at the hotel. Gander felt Rowan was deeply troubled. He had watched her off and on for over fifteen years. She had had the wind knocked out of her by the death of her parents, he said. And we could now pretty fairly well confirm that her random contact with the “boys in blue,” as he called her lovers, had dropped off in the last few months.

I told Gander I would not leave California