But there was a problem, an irritant to which her thoughts increasingly gravitated. It jangled in her mind like a discordant musical tone, a warning buzzer in the distance. The more she pondered, the more inconsistencies she found in her theory of events.
Richard Beauforte had raped Lila, that much was certain: the boar mask had borne it out, and it was perfectly consistent with Lila's psychological state and Charmian's attitude. But there was a clear divide between these normal-world facts and what Cree had experienced at Beauforte House. Something didn't fit. The simplest question was: If the boar-headed ghost was Richard, who was the ghost in the library? Who was the man who lay dying and sending his thoughts to that little girl on the swing? And what of the beating motion, the rage and accusation that went with it? There were a thousand shadings of feeling accompanying each manifestation, and they just didn't jibe.
And what of the other phenomena that Lila had described – the snake, that wolf? After finding that the boar-headed man was not an epiphenomenal manifestation brewed from Lila's subconscious, Cree had less confidence that the others could be so easily dismissed.
Obviously, the boar-headed man was not a perimortem experience, but rather a vivid, crucial memory replaying itself. But she'd never come near his dying experience. Could there be any truth to Joyce's suggestion, the idea that the ghost was a manifestation of Ron's subconscious? The idea didn't explain the boar mask, but at this point, disturbingly, she couldn't totally discard the theory. Anything seemed possible.
But Cree rebelled against the idea. Though she couldn't say why, she could swear the manifestation originated from a dying man. Maybe it was her sense of Ron, the lack of the psychic "buzz" she'd expect from a person with the capacity to project such a powerful psi phenomenon.
So maybe she should reconsider the ghost in the library. Could one dying man's mental processes manifest as two such clearly different entities – his death experience being played out only in the library, his paradoxical, self-punishing memories playing out only upstairs?
It was vaguely possible, but again her instincts rebelled. The two ghosts felt so different. The dying man in the library just didn't seem to be the sort of person who could do what the boar-headed man did. But more important was the dimensional difference between them, as clear as that between a video and a living person. The revenant replaying his death in the library was as emotionally rich and complex as he was physically insubstantial, and was rigidly locked into a very limited repertoire of acts, thoughts, and feelings. By contrast, the boar-headed man was narrow, one-dimensional, yet very solid and physical. He was also one of the most intentional, most adaptive ghosts Cree had ever encountered.
She puzzled over it for several hours, playing theories through to their ramifications. Only one stood up at alclass="underline" that maybe there were indeed two ghosts but only one dying man. Maybe Richard Beauforte had been a Jekyll and Hyde personality, literally and clinically suffering from multiple personality disorder. One personality – internally consistent, probably not even aware of his alter ego – was the decent man, good citizen, loving father, who had died of a heart attack on the library floor. The other was the sadistic, lust-charged creature, in life always concealing itself from its benevolent twin and only occasionally set free to act on its own. And at Richard's death, that part of him had taken on an independent mental existence of a totally different order: physically substantial, kinetic, highly adaptive yet still locked into reliving the searingly intense act that had defined, distilled, its nature.
A multiple personality revenant: Cree suffered a sudden reprise of fear at the thought. How could you untangle such a sick and double being? At first glance, she thought that if you let the dying man in the library go free, let him finish dying, the ghost upstairs would vanish as well. But maybe not. Maybe it would continue on, so divorced from its origins as a living being and from its dying experience that it had no death left to accomplish.
The scenario also left the beating motion to figure in. Another dying memory? Or maybe the beating man was yet another entity, the much older ghost of John Frederick murdering Lionel.
Too many possibilities. None of them quite right, none quite wrong enough to dismiss. She stewed about it until she decided there was only one way to find out. Just the thought made her stomach clench.
But there didn't seem to be a choice. You had to fight back. Push the envelope. Couldn't run away with your tail between your legs.
She waited until almost midnight, when she was sure Joyce wouldn't try to call her. Then she dressed and quietly slipped out of the room and down the somnolent midnight corridors of the hotel. She felt scared to the edge of hysteria, but on another level she had never in her life felt more thoroughly ready.
She entered the now familiar hush of the house with an out-of-control pulse: The memories of the pursuit and the fall were too fresh to overcome. Leaving the lights off, she reset the security panel and headed back into the house, groping her way toward the library.
The silence screamed in her ears.
There was no guaranteeing her multiple personality theory was correct, but it was worth a try. If indeed both ghosts were manifested from a single man, the manifestation seen in its moment of death on the library floor would be the one most likely to reveal the key to the boar-headed entity. In any case, she knew she couldn't cope with the half man, half animal. Her panic was still right there, just beneath the surface. The fear reflexes were too strong. She'd only flee again, mindless, and be pursued and probably die, or worse, this time.
So she'd seek the dying man's experience. She'd have to pierce through those outer layers, find the core, the dying moment.
She found her way through the kitchen and down the hallway into the west wing, ears burning with the expectation of hearing that gut-wrenching, whimpering cry. But the house was silent, holding its musty breath.
The library was a cave of darkness. She walked slowly forward, found the piano, slid her fingers lightly along the smooth keys, veered a little left to find the back of one of the fireplace wingback chairs. From there, she went straight back until she bumped the claw-foot table. Moving to the right, she guided herself with her fingertips along the table's edge until her other hand found the chair she'd sat in the first two times. Deep in the corner, it would give the best vantage in the room.
Richard? she called. A thought like a secret.
She turned to sit in the chair and started to lower herself into it, then leapt up again with a shriek.
She had almost sat on somebody.
She was afraid to budge. Incapable of moving. She had seen two thighs, right beneath her, and they'd shifted as she'd glanced back.
She backed away two steps until she bumped into the bookshelves behind her. She'd have to run to her left, along the wall of the room. There was some furniture in the way, a table, a floor lamp, but she couldn't remember exactly where.
She could see him better now. In the chair. A man-shaped cloud, coalescing and taking on detail. A man in a dark gray suit. His head was turned, so she couldn't quite see his whole face from this angle, but clearly he wore no boar mask. On the claw-footed table at his side was a tray with decanters and bottles, and an ashtray from which he lifted a cigar. He put it to his lips, drew and exhaled a faint plume of smoke that Cree smelled. Then he took up a cut-crystal glass, and she tasted the liquor in it. Amaretto, fiery almond-sweet.
It gave the ghost no satisfaction. He was too unhappy, too preoccupied. He turned toward her, and Cree saw it was Richard Beauforte, who looked at his cigar with distaste and set it down. He sipped some more amaretto and put the glass down, too.