Set This House In Order Part 38

My father turned back around. "Gideon," he warned.

"Told me what? "I said.

"Oh, come on," Gideon chided my father. "You wouldn't try to punish me for telling the truth, would you?"

"What truth?" I said. "What's he talking about?"

"I'm talking about the big master plan," Gideon said. "The one Aaron here cooked up with old Greyface. You still think you were a part of it, don't you? But you weren't."

"I don't understand. . . 'Greyface'? You mean Dr. Grey?"

"The one who just died. She and Aaron had it all worked out: tame the mult.i.tudes, put up the house, create a new front man -- except that last bit wasn't part of the original plan."

I shook my head, still not following.

"He was supposed to run the body," Gideon said, pointing at my father. "That was the plan."

"No." I shook my head again. "No, that was supposed to be my job. My father was tired --"

"We were all tired. But Aaron wanted to be in charge. And hey!" -- Gideon held up his scarred left hand -- "he proved he was tougher than I was. . . or at least more ruthless. But he was supposed to take charge of everything. . . only at the last minute, he decided he wasn't really up to it. So he improvised, and called out a little helper. . ."

I turned to my father. "Is that -- that's not true, is it?" My father didn't answer; but from the way he looked at Gideon, and from the fact that Gideon did not spontaneously shrivel up and die, I realized that it might be true. "Father?"

"Let's go back to the house," my father said.

"Wait. Does that mean it is true?"

"We're not going to discuss this in front of him," my father said. "Let's go back to the house."

And he turned and walked off into the mist.

"That's right," said Gideon, "go back to your playhouse!" Then, seeing that I was still there, he decided to sow one more seed of mischief. "Speaking of the house," he said, "there's something you can help me with. Do you happen to remember how many doors there are on the first floor?"

"What?"

"The first floor of Aaron's playhouse. How many doors does it have?"

"Three," I said. "Front door and back door."

Gideon nodded. "Front door and back door. . . and that makes three, does it?"

"Andrew!" my father called.

"I. . . I've got to go," I said, and started backing away. Gideon smirked at me.

"That's right, little figment," he said, "you go on back to the playhouse with your father. But we'll see each other again soon maybe, huh?" All at once he lunged forward, stamping his foot and throwing his arms wide as if to grab me. I fled, Gideon's mocking laughter chasing me all the way back down to the sh.o.r.e.

I rejoined my father aboard the ferryboat, and Captain Marco pushed off again. This time he didn't take us straight across. Instead, sensing that my father and I had private matters to discuss, he took us out on the water, out of sight and earshot of both Coventry and the mainland, and stopped poling. We drifted in the fog.

"It's true, isn't it?" I said.

"It's not all true," my father replied.

"Not all. . . then what part is true?"

"Let's start with the part that's false," my father said. "I didn't 'improvise.' I didn't call you out on the spur of the moment."

"Then what --"

"There was more than one plan. Always. In therapy, Dr. Grey and I discussed a number of options for the final disposition. One plan, the one I personally favored, is the one you know about: I would run things inside, and create someone new -- you -- to run the body."

"The one you favored," I said. "But Dr. Grey didn't?"

"Dr. Grey felt. . . given the problems I'd had with Gideon trying to take over, she thought it would be better if I didn't share authority with anyone. She wanted me to at least try running the body on my own. She always stressed that it was ultimately my decision, but that was what she recommended. And it is true," he added, "that at the last session we ever had together, I did agree to try her plan. But then after she had her stroke, I rethought it, and changed my mind again."

"Did Dr. Eddington agree with you about changing your mind?"

"No," my father admitted. "He thought I was making a mistake."

Which would technically make my whole existence a mistake -- but I didn't care to dwell on the implications of that. Instead I asked: "How come you never told me this before?"

"I didn't think you needed to know it."

"Was there anything else I didn't need to know?"

No answer. I took that as a yes.

"Gideon asked me a funny question right before we left," I said, a few moments later.

"What question?"

"He wanted to know how many doors there are on the ground floor of the house."

"Three," my father said. "Front door and back door."

"Yes, that's what I told him. Only. . . that doesn't really add up, does it?"

My father looked at me curiously. I had to count it out, holding up fingers: "Front door is one. . .

back door is two. . ."

"Right."

"Right, but then what's three?"

"Three is the front -- . . . no. No, three is. . . it's. . ."

"I don't know either," I said. "I know there are three, but --"

"Wait," my father said. "Wait. Three is. . . the door under the stairs! Right, that's it!"

"The door under the stairs." I struggled to picture it, and finally it came to me: a small wooden door, in the shadows beneath the staircase that ran up from the common room to the second-floor gallery. "Right, OK. . . and where does that door lead to, again?"

"Where. . . ? It leads. . . it leads to. . ." He blinked, and fell silent.

"By any chance," I asked next, "does the house have a bas.e.m.e.nt?"

EIGHTH BOOK:.

LAKE VIEW.

22.

Andrew said that while he was inside, it would look like he was sleeping, but to Mouse it seems more like he's comatose: his breathing is so slow it's almost undetectable, and he doesn't move at all.

When Mouse tiptoes up to the side of the bed to take a closer look at him, she notices that beneath their closed lids, even his eyeb.a.l.l.s are still, with none of the rapid motion that signals a dream in progress.

As she waits for Andrew to come back from where he's gone, she becomes increasingly fidgety.

She tries sitting in the chair but can't get comfortable. She stands up, goes to the window, and looks out at the parking lot for a while; gets bored with that, wanders over to the door, and does a Xavier impersonation, using the handle of the letter opener to whap out a rhythm against the side of the doorframe; gets bored with that, and goes back to the window. Except for the one check to make sure Andrew is really still breathing, she stays clear of the bed.

Time pa.s.ses. Mouse thinks it's been at least half an hour, but when she checks the clock on the nightstand, only ten minutes have gone by. Mouse decides she needs to pee.

She goes into the bathroom. She leaves the door open a crack, enough to hear through but not enough to see in or out. She sits.

While she goes about her business, she reflects on what will happen after Andrew wakes up. He has said nothing about his intentions -- whether he means to return to Was.h.i.+ngton, or continue on to Michigan, or do some other thing. Probably he doesn't know himself yet what he wants to do.

Mouse tells herself that she would like to go home, but as she continues to think about it, she finds that she isn't so sure. For one thing, Maledicta's behavior in the bar on Tuesday night has left her with a mess to take care of, if and when she returns. Mouse supposes that Julie may understand and not fire her for Maledicta's rudeness, but if Mouse intends to keep working in Autumn Creek, she is also going to have to make rest.i.tution for the stolen vodka bottle, and she doubts that the vampire bartender will be as forgiving.

Even if she didn't have that hanging over her head, it's no secret that Mouse doesn't particularly like her life in Seattle. So maybe she shouldn't go back to it: maybe, after Andrew has been safely delivered to wherever it is he decides to go, she should just keep driving, to. . . well, she can just keep driving, and see where she ends up.

No.

No, that's a ridiculous idea; of course she has to go back. She doesn't have the money to just uproot herself and run away. And besides, Dr. Eddington -- Mouse's nagging spirits rally at the thought of him -- has promised to help her. She can't disappoint him. She -- From the other room, she hears the sound of the television being turned on.

"Andrew?" Mouse starts to call out, but then she remembers that she is sitting on a toilet with her pants down. She pulls a wad of paper from the roll and quickly wipes herself. She gets up. She doesn't flush, but steps quietly to the door, and opens it just wide enough to look out.

Andrew is sitting up on the bed, punching b.u.t.tons on the TV remote control. He has a frustrated look on his face.

"Andrew?" Mouse calls softly.

Either he doesn't hear her or he ignores her. He goes on punching b.u.t.tons until suddenly his frustration turns to satisfaction. "Ah!" he exclaims, and the television switches to a new channel.

Mouse opens the door a little wider. "Andrew?"

"Sorry," he says. He looks at her, a smirk playing on his lips, and Mouse thinks: him! But then he says: "Don't worry, I'm not Gideon. He's with Aaron and Andrew right now, playing King of the Mountain. . . but since they're all busy, I thought it'd be a waste to leave a perfectly good body just lying around. By the way" -- he glances around the room -- "is there a mini-bar in here by any chance?"

"Minibar?. . . No!" says Mouse. "You can't get drunk again!"

He arches an eyebrow, as if to say Oh yeah?, but fortunately the point is moot; there is no minibar in the room. "Well, that sucks," he says. Then he shrugs and turns his attention back to the TV.

Mouse looks at the TV too -- and is appalled. The scene on the screen is a motel room, not all that different from this one. . . except that there are naked women on the bed.

"The Indian whacking off in the background is Hyapatia Lee," he informs her helpfully. "And the two actually getting it on, that one is Summer Knight, and the little one is Flame." He leans forward, as if noticing something. "You know," he says, "she kind of looks like you. . . if you had red hair, I mean." He grins. "And were really flexible."

"I can be flexible," says Loins, stepping forward past Mouse's horror. "I don't look that good in cowboy boots, though." The scene on the screen s.h.i.+fts, showing a fourth woman, who for some reason is not taking part in the action on the bed. "Wow," says Loins. "I wish I looked like her."

"Mmm, Christy Canyon," he says. "I bet a lot of people wish they looked like --" He stops.

"Wait a minute," he says, turning to look her in the eye.

He's not smirking anymore; all at once he's wary. Loins kind of likes that. She goes and sits beside him on the bed, giggling as he s.h.i.+es away. "What's the matter?" Loins purrs. "Don't tell me you only like to watch." She puts her hand on his thigh; he gasps, tenses up. . . and just as quickly relaxes.

He pats the back of her hand, affectionately but with no pa.s.sion. "The thing is, dear," he says, his voice gone feminine, "you're just not my type." He plucks Loins's hand off his leg, and deposits it in her own lap. "Now that we've got that straight, would you happen to have a cigarette?"

"No," says Maledicta. "That c.o.c.ksucker Duncan wouldn't stop to get any last night. You sure you still don't have some? You were smoking Winstons yesterday."

"Winstons." He -- she -- makes a face. "Not my favorite brand." She frisks herself anyway, but comes up empty. "Well, if I did have them, I don't know what I did with them."

"Could be you dropped them in that f.u.c.king ditch. You want to go get some more?"

"Yes, that would be lovely." Offering a hand: "I'm Samantha, by the way. Sam to my friends."

"Maledicta," Maledicta says. "I don't have friends." But then she grins and shakes hands. "All right, Sam, let's go get some f.u.c.king smokes before the grown-ups come back."

They go outside. As they cross the parking lot, Sam spins around, taking in the view. "What a beautiful landscape," she says.

"You're f.u.c.king joking, right?" Maledicta says. "Desolate f.u.c.king dinosaur country. . ."

"I don't mind desolate," Sam tells her. "I've always wanted to live in a desert. If I had a choice, I'd go to New Mexico, and open an art gallery in Taos or Santa Fe."

"Yeah? So what, the others voted you down on that?"

Sam laughs. "No vote. We're not a democracy. Aaron and Andrew make all the important decisions; the rest of us just try to fit in." A sigh. "I do understand why it has to be that way, but still, sometimes I wish. . . well. . ."

"Hmmph," says Maledicta, troubled. "Mouse had better not start expecting me to just f.u.c.king fit in." She shakes her head for emphasis. "f.u.c.k that."

They find a cigarette machine outside the motel office. Maledicta goes first, feeding in dollar bills and pulling the selection k.n.o.b for Winstons. There's a click, but no cigarettes come out. "What the f.u.c.k. .

. ?" Maledicta says. She pulls the Winstons k.n.o.b a second time, then tries the one for Camels. Nothing happens. She kicks the machine; still nothing.

"Wait," says Sam. "Try Kools."