RIX WAS DRESSING FOR DINNER. AS HE KNOTTED HIS TIE IN FRONT of the oval mirror above his chest of drawers, a gust of wind that scattered blood-red leaves against the north-facing windows caught his attention. The trees parted for an instant, like a fiery sea opening, and Rix saw the high roofs and chimneys of Usher's Lodge in the distance, tinted orange and purple in the fading light. The trees closed again.

He had to reknot his tie. His fingers had slipped.

When he was barely nine, he'd gone into the Lodge for the first and last time. Boone had goaded Rix into playing hide-and-seek inside. Rix had to do the seeking first. It was dark in there, but they'd had flashlights. Boone laid down the ground rules: there would be hiding only on the first floor in the main house, no use of the east and west wings. Close your eyes now, count to fifty! Rix had started hunting him when he reached thirty. There was no electricity in the Lodge because it had been uninhabited since 1945, and it was as silent as winter in there. And cold - the deeper he'd gone, the colder it had been. Which was strange, since it was file first of October and still warm outside. But the Lodge, he was certain now, repelled heat. It clutched within its winding corridors and maze of rooms the frozen ghosts of one hundred forty years of winters. It was always deep January inside the Lodge, a world of icy, remote magnificence.

Malengine, Rix thought. It was a word he'd been mulling over to use as the title of a book someday. It meant "evil machination" or, more literally, something constructed for an evil purpose. The Lodge was a malengine, built with the spoils of destruction, meant to shield the generations of murderers that Rix called his ancestors. If Usherland could be compared to a body, the Lodge was its malignant heart - silent now, but not stilled. Like Walen Usher, the Lodge listened, and brooded, and waited.

It had trapped him in its maw for almost forty-eight hours when he was nine years old, like a beast patiently trying to digest him. Sometimes Rix's mind slipped gears and he was back in that nine-year-old body, back in the Lodge's darkness after the weak batteries that Boone had put in his flashlight flickered out. He didn't remember very much of the ordeal, but he remembered that darkness - absolute and chilling, a monstrous, silent force that first brought him to his knees and then made him crawl. He hadn't known it then, but two hundred rooms had been counted in the Lodge, and due to the madness - or cunning - of the floor plans, there were windowless areas that could not be reached by any corridor yet discovered. He thought he recalled falling down a long staircase and bruising his knees, but nothing was certain. All shadows that he tried to keep behind a bolted door.

He'd awakened in bed several days later. Edwin had gone inside, Cass told him afterward, and had found him wandering up on the second floor in the east wing. Rix had been all but sleepwalking through the Lodge, banging into walls and doors like a wind-up toy robot. God only knew how he'd kept from breaking his neck. From that time on he'd never stepped into the Lodge again.

The image of the bloody-eyed skeleton on its hook swung slowly through Rix's mind. He quickly shunted it aside. His head was aching dully. Boone had deliberately lured him into the Lodge and gotten him lost.

It amused Rix that Walen would let Boone have nothing to do with Usher Armaments. Boone had never even toured the plant, and Rix had no desire to. Though the racehorses seemed to be his primary occupation, Boone owned a talent agency with offices in Houston, Miami, and New Orleans. He was close-mouthed about his business, but had bragged once to Rix that he handled "about a dozen Hollywood starlets so pretty they'd melt your pecker off."

If that was so, Rix had wondered, then why didn't Boone have an office in California? Rix had never visited any of his brother's offices - and was unlikely to be invited - but Boone apparently made a good deal of money from his agency. At least he dressed and talked the role of a successful businessman.

Nothing but writing had ever been even moderately successful for Rix. He had a few thousand dollars in savings, but he knew it would be gone soon enough. Then what? Find another poorly paying job that would last four or five months at the most? If he couldn't write another book - a best-seller - everything that Walen had ever said about his being a failure would turn out to be true, and he'd have to come crawling back to Usherland.

Rix tried to put his uncertainties out of his mind. He put on his tweed jacket and inspected a tear under his right sleeve, caused when he'd tumbled to the sidewalk in New York. Some of the lining was ripped, too, but he decided his mother wouldn't notice. He was as ready as he would ever be. He went downstairs.

On his way to the living room, he stopped to peer into the game room, with its two large billiard tables and antique aquamarine Tiffany lamps. Everything was still the same - except, he noted, for two new additions: Wizard's Quest and Defender arcade games. They were shoved discreetly into a corner, probably there for Boone's pleasure. He went through the game room into the "gentlemen's room," a high-ceilinged, oak-paneled parlor that still smelled faintly of cigar smoke. Oil paintings of hunting scenes adorned the walls, along with the stuffed heads of moose, rams, and wild boars. Standing in a corner was a seven-foot-tall grizzly bear that Teddy Roosevelt had supposedly shot on the estate. A grandfather clock with a beautiful brass pendulum struck softly seven times.

A pair of sliding oak doors stood on the other side of the gentlemen's room. Rix walked across to open them. His father's library lay beyond.

But the doors were securely locked.

"Have you seen your brother?"

Rix jumped like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He turned toward his mother, who was wearing a shimmering gray evening gown. Her makeup and hair were perfect. "Nope," he said easily.

"I suppose he's gone over to the stables again, then." She frowned with disapproval. "If he's not spending his time clocking the horses, he's playing poker with those friends of his at the country club. I've told him time and again that they're ganging up on him to cheat him, but does he listen? Of course not." Her gaze sharpened. "Were you looking for something to read?"

"Not particularly, just poking around."

"Your father keeps the library locked now,"

"It wasn't locked the last time I was here."

"It's locked," she repeated, "now."

"Why?"

"Your father was doing some research . . . before he got sick, I mean." There was a quicksilver flicker of distress in her eyes, then it was gone. "He had some books brought over from the Lodge's library. Evidently he doesn't want them to deteriorate any more than they already have."

"Research on what?"

She shrugged. "I have no earthly idea. Doesn't your brother know that we eat dinner at seven-thirty sharp in this house? I don't want him sitting at my dining room table smelling of horse perspiration!"

"I'm sure he'll smell like his nice malodorous self."

"Sarcasm never won any popularity contests, son," she told him firmly. "Well, I have to know if that little wife of his is going to join us tonight or not. She's gone a straight week of eating her dinner in bed."

"Why don't you just send a servant up to ask her?"

"Because," Margaret said icily, "Puddin' is Boone's responsibility. I won't have my servants bowing to her like she's a princess! I don't give a damn if she's too lazy to get out of bed to use the commode, but Cass would like to know how many places to set."

"I can't help you with that." He glanced once again at the library door's brass handles and then directed his attention to an elk's head on the wall above the fireplace.

Margaret said, "I trust you'll be on time for dinner. You look as if you can use a good, filling meal. A needle and thread would do wonders for that shabby coat, as well. Take it off after dinner and I'll have it fixed for you."

"Thanks."

"Come along when you're ready, then. We eat at seven-thirty in this house."

Left alone, Rix contemplated the locked doors again, and then went back the way he'd come to the main corridor. He walked past the living room and dining room, heading for the rear of the house.

In the large Gatehouse kitchen, where copper pots and utensils hung in orderly precision from hooks on the spotless, white-tiled walls, Rix stood at the doorway. He watched a short, rotund woman with gray hair checking a number of simmering pots on one of the ranges while she gave orders in a soft but firm voice to the two subordinate cooks who bustled about. An amazing warmth spread through him, and he realized at once just how much he'd missed Cass Bodane. One of the cooks glanced over her shoulder at him - and didn't recognize him - but then Cass turned toward him and froze.

Rix was prepared. Her oval, ruddy-cheeked face registered shock for only a fleeting second, and then a smile like sunshine took its place. Rix was sure Edwin had told her how bad he looked.

"Oh, Rix!" Cass said, and embraced him. The top of her head came only to his chin. Her warmth was as welcome as a cheerful hearth on a winter's night, and Rix felt his bones beginning to glow. Without this woman and her husband, Rix knew his life at Usherland would have been truly bleak. They lived in a white house behind the gardens and garage, and many times when he was a little boy, Rix had wished he could live in that house with them. Though they had an enormous responsibility, they'd never been too busy to spend a while listening to him, or giving him encouragement.

"It's so good to have you home again!" She pulled back to look at him; her clear blue eyes only flinched a fraction.

"If you say I look wonderful, I'll know you've been hitting the cooking sherry," he said with a smile.

"Don't you tease me!" She pushed affectionately at his chest, then took his hand. "Come sit down. Louise, bring two cups of coffee to the nook, please. One with cream and sugar, one with sugar only."

"Yes ma'am," one of the cooks said.

Cass led him out of the kitchen, through a door to the small room where the servants took their breaks. A table and chairs were set up here, and a window looked out toward the gardens, now illuminated by low-level floodlights. They sat down, and Louise brought their coffee.

"Edwin told me you were upstairs," Cass explained, "but I knew you needed your rest. How was New York?"

"Okay, I guess. Pretty noisy."

"Were you up there on business? Researching a new book?"

"No, I . . . had some things to take care of with my agent."

When she smiled, the deep lines surfaced around her eyes. She was a lovely woman at sixty-one, and Rix knew she had been a real knockout when she was a girl. He'd seen an old photograph Edwin carried in his wallet: Cass in her twenties, with long blond hair, a flawless complexion, and those eyes that could stop time. "Rix, that's so exciting!" she said, and covered his hand with her own. "I want to hear all about your new book!"

Bedlam was dead, he knew. There was no sense in trying to stir it from the grave. "I'd . . . like to tell you what I'm going to work on next," he said.

Her eyes brightened. "A new thriller? Oh, goody!"

"We talked about it before, the last time I was home." He braced himself, because he remembered her reaction. "I still want to do the history of the Ushers."

Cass's smile faded. She was silent, averting her gaze and toying with her coffee cup.

"I've been thinking about this for a long time," Rix continued. "I've even started the research."

"Oh? How?"

"I went to Wales after I finished Fire Fingers. I remembered that Dad told me Malcolm Usher owned a coal mine in the early 1800s. It took me two weeks, but I found what was left of it, near a village called Gosgarrie. It was boarded up, but a records cleric in the village dug up some documents on the Usher Coal Company. There'd been an explosion and cave-in around 1830.

Malcolm, Hudson, and Roderick were touring the mine when it happened, and they were trapped in there." He expected her to look up at him, but she didn't. "Hudson and Roderick were rescued, but their father's corpse was never recovered. Evidently they were so torn up about his death that they came over to America, with Madeline."

Still, Cass didn't respond. "I want to know what my ancestors were like," Rix persisted. "What motivated them to create weapons? Why did they settle here, and why did they keep building onto the Lodge? Edwin's told me things about grandfather Erik, but what about the others?" Their portraits hung in the library, and he knew their names - Ludlow, Erik's father; Aram, Ludlow's father and Hudson's son - but he knew nothing of their lives. "What were the Usher women like?" Rix pressed on. "I know researching the book would be tough. I'd probably have to use my imagination on a lot of it, but I think it could be done."

She drank from her cup and held it between her palms. "Your father would put your head on top of a flagpole," she said softly.

"Don't you think people would like to know about the Usher family? It would be a history of the American weapons industry, too. Don't you think I could do it?"

"That's not the point. Mr. Usher has a right to privacy. Your entire family has, including your deceased ancestors. Are you sure you'd want strangers knowing everything that's gone on at Usherland?"

Rix knew Cass was referring to his grandfather Erik, who had a penchant for throwing wild parties where nude women served as centerpieces. At one party, Edwin had told him, all the guests rode horses inside the Lodge, and Erik required the servants to wear suits of armor and joust on the lakeshore for entertainment.

"Pardon me if I'm wrong," Cass said, and finally raised her eyes to his, "but I think you want to write that family history because you see it as striking out against your father and against the family business. You've already let him know how you feel. Can't you see how he respects you for daring to break the mold?"

"Are you kidding?"

"He's a proud man, and he won't ever admit that he's been wrong about you. He envies your independence. Mr. Usher could never break away from Erik. Someone had to take control of the business after Erik died. You shouldn't hate him because of that. Well . . . do as you please. You will anyway. But my advice is to let sleeping lions lie."

"I could write that book," Rix said firmly. "I know I could."

Cass nodded absently. It was clear she had something more to say, but she didn't know how to begin. Her mouth pressed into a tight line. "Rix," she said, "there's something you need to know. Oh dear, how can I say this?" She gazed out toward the gardens. "There are so many changes in the wind, Rix, so many things in a state of passage. Oh hell! I was never any good at making speeches." Cass looked directly at him. "This is the last year for Edwin and myself at Usherland."

Rix's first impulse was to laugh. Surely she was kidding! The laugh stuck in his throat when her expression remained serious.

"It's time for us to retire." She tried to smile, but it wouldn't come. "Past time, really. We wanted to retire two years ago, but Mr. Usher talked Edwin out of it. Now we've saved enough money to buy a home in Pensacola. I've always wanted to live in Florida."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this! My God! You've been here all my life!"

"I know that. And it goes without saying that you've been like a son to us." There was pain in her eyes, and she had to pause for a moment to gather her thoughts. "Edwin can't get around the estate like he used to. Usherland needs a younger man's touch. We want to enjoy the sun, and Edwin wants to go deep-sea fishing. I want to wear sun hats." She smiled wistfully. "If I get bored with doing that, Edwin says I can open a small bake shop. It's time, Rix. It really is."

Rix was so stunned he could hardly think. What would Usherland be without Edwin and Cass? "Florida's . . . so far away."

"Not that far. They do have telephones down there, you know."

"But who'll take your places - as if anyone could?" Rix knew it had been a tradition, ever since Hudson's day, for the chief of staff of Usherland to be a Bodane. But since Cass and Edwin had no children, the next chief of staff would have to be an outsider.

"I know what you're wondering," Cass replied. "There's always been a Bodane in charge of Usherland. Well, Edwin wants to keep the tradition going. You've heard him mention his brother Robert, haven't you?"

"A couple of times." Edwin's brother had left the estate when he was a young man, but had settled on the other side of Foxton. Rix knew that Edwin visited him occasionally.

"Robert has a grandson named Logan. He's nineteen, and he's been working at the armaments plant for two years. Edwin believes he has the potential to take the job."

"A nineteen-year-old chief of staff? That's crazy!"

"Edwin was twenty-three when he took over from his father," Cass reminded him. "He's talked to Logan about this, and he believes Logan can do it. Mr. Usher has given his approval. Edwin's going to bring Logan here tomorrow or the day after to begin his training. Of course, if Logan decides he doesn't want to stay, we'll advertise for an outsider. And if there's any problem at all, he leaves."

"Have you met this kid?"

"Once. He seems to be intelligent, and he has an excellent work record at the plant."

Rix caught a trace of reticence in her voice. "Are you sold on him?"

"Honestly? No, I'm not. He's a little unpolished. I think he'll have to prove himself. But he's agreed to try it, and I think he should have the chance."

A buzzer went off in the kitchen. It was almost seven-thirty, and Margaret was summoning the servants to the dining room.

"I have to go." Cass rose quickly to her feet. Rix sat staring out at the gardens, and Cass touched his shoulder. "I'm sorry if this came as a shock to you, Rix, but it's for the best. It's the way things are. You'd better run along now. I've got a good, rich Welsh pie in the oven for you."

Rix left Cass working in the kitchen, and walked dazedly to the dining room. His mother was waiting alone at the long, gleaming mahogany table.

As one of the many clocks struck seven-thirty, and others echoed it, Boone strode through the doorway. His face was flushed, and there was racetrack dust in his eyebrows, but he'd dressed for dinner in a dark blue suit and striped necktie. "You look like crap on a cracker, Rixy," Boone said as he took his place across from Rix.

"Both of my fine boys are home," Margaret said, with a strained note of cheer. She bowed her head. "Let us give thanks for what we are about to receive."