The 37th mandala : a novel (17 page)

She lay panting, not struggling for the moment. Outside, the storm broke. The wind howled louder, and a banging and lashing began, as if giants with whips had come to flail the sides of the house. It was tree branches, he hoped, mixed with the pelting of hail. He was glad that bookcases covered the windows. For a moment, he felt that they were at the center of the storm, in its calm eye, surrounded on all sides by elements more powerful than themselves—barricaded here, unable to send for help ... if help even existed in this world.

He had to do something. He couldn't sit and wait idly for the next psychic attack.

He should take her to the hospital. The mandalas wouldn't be able to accomplish anything there. She'd be under observation, clinically confined, no use to them. They would vanish under the prodding of technology, the scrutiny of science, as such things always did. The mandalas would sublimate into mental ghosts, neurosis, psychosis; they would become symptomatic of Lenore's own sickness.

But could he truly take her, knowing they might lock her away? Wouldn't that be the deepest sort of betrayal?

Truthfully, he almost welcomed the possibility that she was sick and all they had experienced was shared delusion. Science would labor mightily to preserve his belief in a neutral universe. Thinking in this manner, he grew almost desperate to see the doctors and hear their lofty reassurances.

"I'm sorry, Lenore," he whispered, apologizing in advance for what he was about to do. The scientists would take things out of his hands. They would take Lenore....

A decision—even the wrong decision—would give him a sense of empowerment.

It was freezing outside. The roads would be treacherous. He had to get her bundled up. The trickle of blood on his cheek reminded him to keep his guard.

He supposed she would be safest in the temple room while he got things ready. He hadn't actually cast a circle, so he needn't worry about breaking through it; apparently the mandalas didn't respect such things anyway. He went into the living room and dug a pair of socks and cotton long Johns out of the heaped laundry. There was no way to get a shirt on her without loosening the cords, and he didn't think that would be wise just yet. He took her heavy down jacket out of the closet.

Lenore was struggling with her bonds when he got back. She made a fierce effort to rise, her face red with rage and terror.

"Don't hurt yourself," he said, hurrying over to her.

"Me? What are you doing?"

"Try to remember. You keep going in and out of trances."

"Trances?" She looked at him as if he were an idiot. "Goddamn it, untie me right this fucking minute!"

"Lenore, I'm sorry, I can't. You took a knife to me."

She set her jaw and caught her breath, her eyes red and burning, her voice pitched low as she said, "If you don't untie me by the time I count to three ..."

"I can't."

"One ..."

He shook his head. "Lenore, I won't do it."

"Two ..."

"Don't ask me, 'cause—"

She gained her feet and hurled herself at him, screaming "Three!" The altar shook as he struck it; candles toppled, salt and water spilled. He sank to the ground, Lenore standing over him. She stared down, naked under her robe with her hands tied behind her back, looking as if she'd like to crush his face under her heel. He was glad he hadn't put shoes on her yet. He tensed for the attack.

But she didn't move; her breathing slowed. She sank to her knees, weeping.

"Michael ... Michael, where am I?" she said. "What's happening?"

He got up quickly, slid his arms around her. "You're here, with me. It's okay."

With her head against him, she whimpered the words, "We have to go to Derek Crowe."

Michael sighed. "That's impossible."

"Please. ..."

"I'll—I'll take you to the hospital, okay?"

"The
hospital
? They can't do anything!"

"You'll be safer there than here."

"Doctors can't help me. I'll die in there. They'll kill me. They'll do things to my brain! Please, let's go to California."

"How could you last that long?"

"I'd be all right just knowing we're going for help—for real help. It'd help me be strong. There's something here that gives them strength and takes it out of me. We've got to get away. Please, Michael!"

"Oh, Lenore."

Her voice was hoarse, her eyes red-rimmed. But she put on an air of calm and sank forward until he was supporting her entire weight. She moaned against his shoulder.

"You don't love me anymore, do you? You don't care what happens to me. You'd let them lock me up in a hospital when you know it's not even my fault. It's something you did to me and you won't take responsibility. You're such a fucking shit!"

He sighed. It came to him then that he could win her cooperation with a small lie. But he had to make it convincing.

"Jesus," he said. "I don't believe I'm saying this. All right. We'll go. If it makes you feel stronger to know it, we'll go."

He felt her relax with a shudder. "Thank God. Thank you, Michael."

"You just stay here for a minute. Let me help you put on these clothes. Then I'll go warm up the car, and ask Tucker to keep an eye on the place, okay? Then we'll pack whatever we need."

She looked at him, grateful as a child for a small favor, and let him dress her. Once her underwear and long Johns were on, he zipped up the coat like a straitjacket, her arms trapped inside it. She leaned slightly forward, her face looking green and fatigued.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asked.

"I can hold out."

He went onto the front porch, down the steps, toward her car. It was black night, later than he'd realized. Sleet slashed sideways in an icy wind. It would be cruel to stuff Lenore into the VW; her car was roomy and stable; he felt safer in bad weather. He climbed inside the Cutlass and tugged the heavy door shut, but the engine refused to turn over. He tried as long as he dared, but he didn't like leaving Lenore in the house; he could barely see lights through the trees. Anything could be happening back there.

So the Beetle won by default. He hurried back to it and the motor turned over easily. He left it purring in the drive and returned to the house, already soaking wet and freezing.

It was true that he needed to pay Tucker a visit, but not for the reason he'd told Lenore. He intended to ask him about whatever drugs he'd been supplying. When he surrendered to the doctors, he would tell them everything they needed to diagnose Lenore's condition. Only Tucker could say what he'd been dispensing.

From Tucker's landing, he glanced back at the yard and shivered. The porch lights cast stark shadows through the hedges and trees, making them look artificial. The scene resembled a set from a horror movie, complete with ground fog—actually exhaust from the idling car.

He peered through the plastic storm window into the kitchen. The only light came from the refrigerator, which was ajar. Tucker must be up front. He knocked loudly.

No answer. He tried the knob and it turned. Tucker didn't usually mind if he walked right in. Opening the door, he unleashed a blast of music.

"Hey, Tuck? Tucker? It's Michael. You home?"

He shut the door loudly behind him and pushed the fridge shut as he passed.

The doors in the hall were closed. He rapped lightly on Tucker's bedroom door, which was directly over the temple downstairs. Hearing no answer, he went down the hall into the living room.

It was empty. All the lights were on and the stereo howled. The frozen wind had reached inside, chilling the whole house. He touched the volume knob, cranking the racket down to a bearable level, figuring this would bring Tucker out of hiding—or at least alert him to Michael's presence.

In the comparative quiet, he grew aware of the house's exceptional stillness. Maybe Tucker wasn't home after all.

"Tuck? Scarlet?"

Going back down the hall, he tapped the bedroom door a bit louder than before. This time he heard a scratching sound.

He opened the door a few inches, peeking at a strip of poster-covered wall. He jumped when something brushed his ankle, but it was only Scabby, slipping out of the room. The cat padded away down the bare wood boards, leaving sticky pawprints.

"Uh-oh, Scabby's in trouble...."

The door swung open the rest of the way.

The first thing he saw was the pattern on the wall. That drew and held his eyes, despite everything else, despite the shattered racks of ribs and torn red meat heaped on the bed below, where two figures lay twisted in the confused and broken pile of their own bones, with their flesh hanging in rags. If nothing else, the design provided a focus for his incomprehension, a welcome distraction from horror.

The pattern might have been lifted intact from
The Mandala Rites
, from the very frontispiece that had started all his trouble—the same living symbol that had materialized the other night in the room below this one, the same mandala he had seen tonight with its thin tubes sunk in Lenore's skull. It was like a charcoal rubbing of the mandala, done in dark-red pigments, lacking some details but capturing its essence. The same arrangement of radial arms, that subtle double ring of dots suggesting beaded eyes. For a moment, all he could think was that Tucker Doakes had found a copy of
The Mandala Rites
and obsessively painted the image on his wall, blotting it indiscriminately over plaster and picture frames and the heavy metal album posters he had tacked and taped up everywhere.

But the color of the mandala matched too closely the gory mess that soaked the sheets.

The mandala must have passed through the wall after rising from the red bath of Tucker's and Scarlet's bodies. The plaster had acted as a sieve, separating the physical from the astral substance, leaving this pattern behind.

He couldn't keep from theorizing; the intensity of his intellectual activity sheltered him from a purely emotional response. This was a horrific problem, yes, but if one applied a disciplined and open mind to its solution, as the doctors surely would when he explained how all of this related to Lenore's condition, then ...

Then ...

All thought of science fled. All his illusions about the help he might find in a hospital were instantly destroyed. Now only flight seemed a reasonable solution.

Lenore was right. He had lied to her about where they were going; but now it turned out he'd been telling the truth.

Outside, a horn began to blare.

He stumbled out of the room, not wanting to be found there, seeing a dozen good reasons to plead ignorance of events in Tucker Doakes's house. In the dark kitchen, he nearly tripped over Scabby. The cat. He snatched her up unthinkingly, wanting only to shield all living beings from the carnage in the other room; too late, he found that Scabby's fur was matted with stinking gore. By now he was outside, and he could hardly throw the cat into the sleet. From the landing, as wind slapped rain into his face and Scabby kicked to get free, he saw his mother's car pulling partway into the driveway, coming up at such an angle that it slammed into a hedge and stalled there. He hurried down the steps, forced to go straight through her headlights, hoping that her windshield was sufficiently blurred to hide him from her no doubt blurrier vision. He ran to the back of the house and went in through the utility porch. He couldn't think of more than one thing at a time. Which was good. With everything to juggle, he needn't keep wondering exactly what had happened upstairs.

He heard the car horn bleat as he rushed down the hall, dropping the cat in the bathroom and slamming the door to keep her there. He rushed into the temple, praying Lenore was lucid. "Hurry! My mother's ..."

The temple was empty. The leather string lay on the carpet; somehow she'd freed herself. Trembling, mouth dry, he started slowly back out of the room; turned to find her standing in the hall, eyes wide.

He tensed, ready for anything now. He hadn't remembered seeing his athame on the altar. She could have taken it. His eyes dropped to her hands. At that instant she laughed.

She was carrying a duffel bag.

"I'm packing," she said.

"Jesus. ..."

"I told you I'd be fine. I'm better now that I know we're going."

He swallowed. "We're going, all right. But my mother's here." Even now he heard footsteps on the porch, advancing none too steadily. He wondered if he could reach the door before her, and lock her out. It would give them time—but for what? The only way to get her out of their hair was to convince her everything was fine.

"Hide the bag," he said. "Act normal. Are you sure you're all right?"

She nodded, slipping back into the bedroom. A moment later, his mother started pounding on the door. When he opened it, she nearly collapsed in his arms. She managed to stagger past him, catching herself on the sofa back. She stood there, damp and panting, staring suspiciously, red-eyed, around the room.

"What are you doing here?" he said; his impatience came out sounding like disgust, but she didn't notice. It was a miracle she'd made it this far. Another wave of panic caught him when he realized that she was about to collapse where she stood, forcing him to put her to bed right here. And when she woke in the morning, to find them gone, would she explore the house in search of them?

She started past him, stiff-legged, wheeling about as if scouring the room, trying lamely to make her loss of control look deliberate. "I came t'see Lenore. She's sick, right? I brought you two some ... some soup." She pointed back at the door, and he opened it slightly to peer at the porch. There was an aluminum pot at the top of the steps, the lid half off, rain and hail pelting into it. Perhaps an inch of liquid was left at the bottom of the pot; if it had ever been full, it must have slopped all over her car on the way over. He slammed the door.

"She's not that sick," he said as gently as possible. "You should have called. The roads are terrible. Now I'll have to give you a ride back. Does Earl know where you went?"

"Course he does." She looked around at the litter of laundry. "Not much of a housekeeper, is she?"