live?”
“You killed my child, that’s what you did,” said Michael. “You left my wife on the brink of death. You took the living flesh of my child and subjugated it to your will, your dark will, that’s what you did. And you killed my wife, you destroyed her, like you destroyed her mother and her mother’s mother and all those women, all the way back! Kill you! I will kill you with pleasure! For St. Francis I will kill you. For St. Michael. For the Blessed Virgin and for the Christ Child you so love!”
Michael’s right fist drove into Lasher’s face. Lasher caught the blow, staggering to the side and dancing around in a great circle suddenly, the blood pouring from his nose.
“God, no, don’t do it. Don’t do it.”
“You wanted to be flesh? Well, you are flesh and now you’ll know what happens when flesh dies.”
“But I do know, God help me!” Lasher shouted.
As Michael came at him again, Lasher kicked Michael hard in the leg and with his own fist drove Michael back against the wall. The blow astonished Michael, coming as it had from the long slender limb which seemed so powerless, and which was obviously not.
Michael climbed to his feet. Dizzy. Pain again. No. Not yet. “Damn you,” he said, “damn you that you have the strength you do, but this time it will not be enough.”
He swung at the creature, but the creature dodged the blow, with another broad graceful bowing step. Again the white fist was clenched and smashing against Michael’s jaw before he could duck or raise his right arm in defense.
“Michael, the hammer!” said Julien.
The hammer. On the sill of the open window. The hammer, with which he had searched the house that night, looking for the prowler, and finding only Julien in the dark! He dashed for it, grabbed it by the handle, turned it round, and, holding it with both hands, rushed at the creature and brought the claw end down into the thing’s skull.
Through the hair, through the tender skin, through the fontanel, through the opening that had not closed, the iron claw sank. The creature’s mouth formed a perfect oval of amazement. The blood exploded upwards as if from a fount. Lasher’s hands flew up as if to stop the flood, then drew back as the blood gushed down into his eyes.
Michael wrenched the claw from the wound and brought it down hard again, deeper this time into the creature’s brain. A man would have been finished, gone, no reason, but the thing only listed, drifted, staggered, the blood pouring from its head as if from a spout.
“Oh, God, help me!” Lasher cried, the blood flowing down in rivulets past his nostrils into his mouth. “Oh, God in heaven, why? Why?” he wailed. The blood ran down his chin. Like Christ with the Crown of Thorns he bled.
Michael raised the hammer again.
Norgan appeared suddenly, flustered, red-faced, and then rushed at Michael, coming between him and Lasher. Michael brought the hammer down. The man died instantly as the hammer caved in his forehead and sank three inches through the bone.
Norgan fell forward, hanging from the hammer as Michael jerked it free.
Lasher seemed about to fall. He danced, listed, cried softly, the blood still flowing, mingled now with his sleek black hair. He gazed at the window. The window to the porch roof was open! A frail young woman stood there in the darkness, on the porch roof, the emerald glinting on a golden chain around her neck. She wore a flowered dress, short at her knees, her dark hair close to her face. She beckoned.
“Yes, I’m coming, my darling dear,” said the dazed Lasher, falling forward, and climbing up, and out over the windowsill onto the roof. “My Antha, wait, don’t fall.”
As he rose up to his full height again, he struggled to gain his balance. Michael climbed out on the tarred roof and sprang to his feet. The girl was gone. The night was high and full of the light of the moon. They stood three stories above the flags below. Michael swung the hammer one more time, one last fine blow that caught Lasher on the side of his head and sent him over the edge of the roof.
The body hurtled downward, no scream escaping from it, the head striking the flags with full force.
Michael at once climbed over the small railing. He jabbed the hammer into his belt, and, grabbing hold of the iron trellis with both hands, moved down it, half falling, half tumbling through the vines and the thick banana trees, and letting the stalks cushion him as he hit the earth below.
The thing lay on the garden path, a sprawling body of gangly arms and legs and flowing black hair. It was dead.
Its blue eyes stared up into the night sky, its mouth agape.
Michael went down on his knees beside it, and slammed the hammer down again and again on it, this time the hammer end, shattering and pounding the bones of the forehead, the bones of the cheeks, the bones of the jaw, again and again extricating the weapon from the blood and pulp only to strike once more.
At last there was nothing of the face left. The bones were cartilage, or something perhaps stronger. The thing was collapsed, and twisted and draining like something made from rubber or plastic. Blood seeped out of the battered casing of skin which had once been the face.
Nevertheless Michael hit it again. He brought the claw end down into the throat of the being, tearing it open. He did this again and again until the head was all but severed from the neck.
Finally he fell back against the base of the downstairs porch, sitting there, breathless, the bloody hammer in his hand. He felt the pain in his Chest again, but he felt no fear with it. He stared at the dead body; he stared at the dark garden. He stared up at the light coming down from the dark sky. The bananas lay broken and torn under and over the being. Its black hair clung tenaciously to the shapeless bloody pelt of battered nose and broken teeth and bones.
Michael climbed to his feet. The pain in his chest was now large and hot and almost unbearable. He stepped over the body and up onto the soft green grass of the lawn. He walked out into the middle of it, his eyes ranging slowly over the dark facade of the house next door, in which not a single light glimmered, the windows shrouded with yew and banana and magnolia so that nothing could be seen. His eyes moved over the dark shrubbery along the front fence, to glimpse the deserted street beyond.
Nothing stirred in the yard. Nothing stirred in the house. Nothing moved out beyond the fence. There had been no witnesses. In the deep soft silence and shadows of the Garden District, death had been done again and no one had noticed; no one would come. No one would call.
What will you do now? He was shaking all over; his hands were slippery with sweat and with blood. His ankle ached. He’d torn the ligament coming down the trellis, or when he’d fallen the last few feet to the ground. Didn’t matter. He could walk, he could move. He could wipe off the hammer. He looked to the back of the dark garden, past the glow of the blue swimming pool, and through the iron gates to the rear yard. He saw the great arms of Deirdre’s oak reaching upward, crowding out the pale clouds.
“Under the oak,” he thought. “When I catch my breath. When I…when I…” and he went down on the grass, on his knees, and collapsed to the side.
Thirty-eight
FOR A LONG time he lay there. He didn’t sleep. The pain came and went. Finally, he drew in his breath and it didn’t hurt so much. He sat up, and then the pain started pounding in him, but it seemed small and contained within the chambers or the valves of his heart. He did not know which. He did not care. He rose to his feet, and walked to the flags.
The house lay in darkness, quiet, still as before. My beloved Rowan. Aaron…But he could not leave this mangled body here.
It lay as he had left it, only it seemed more flattened somehow, perhaps merely twisted. He didn’t know. He reached down and gathered up the torso in his arms. The remains of the head broke loose from it, sticking to the flagstones, the last bit of flesh tearing like chicken fat.
Well, he would come back for the head. He began to carry the body, letting its feet drag on the ground, back along the flagstone path and up and around the pool and back towards the rear yard.
It was not hard for him after the killing. The body didn’t weigh that much, and he took things very slowly. He
