Gods of Aberdeen

by Micah Nathan

  “Look at this,” Art said, sliding a small, cloth-covered book over to me. There was no writing on the cover or spine. “The work of Antonio Exili, 17th-century poisoner. Do you know how rare this is?” He opened the cover. “The 15th to the end of the 17th century was considered the golden age of poisons. So many of the formulas are lost. Some exist, like Exili’s work, but are very difficult to get. I bought this in Granada, last year. It’s one of only four known 19th-century reprints.”

  “Similia similibus curentur,” I said. Like cures like. Use of the poison is its antidote, one of the few medieval medical practices actually shown to have any validity.

  Art took back the book.

  “Part of your work?” I said.

  He poured yellowish liquid from beaker to cylinder, and stirred it with glass piping. “I’m making Aqua Toffana, actually,” he said. “Favorite of the Medicis. Composed mostly of arsenic and cantharides. Death is painless, occurring within a few hours.”

  I remembered the belladonna poisoning in our hotel room back in Prague, and Art’s talk about the payoff being proportionate to the risk.

  I asked Art what the poison was for.

  “Dan,” he said, calmly. “If he’s after us, I intend to kill him first.” He set the cylinder down and wiped the piping with a cloth.

  Of course you do.

  “I should go,” I said.

  Art motioned toward the door with a nod of his head, and then started to pour the yellow liquid into a crucible.

  I grabbed a coffee at Campus Bean and sat by myself in the corner, relieved that snow and darkness had banished the media from school. The search was entering its fifth day and the initial excitement had dissipated; it had become a more professional affair, as local rescue parties thinned out and eventually disbanded, giving way to Mrs. Higgins’s personal investigation team. Even with all her connections the police were only willing to go so far—there had been no evidence of any criminal activity, according to the newspapers and television, and the Fairwich residents were starting to grumble about the attention paid to Daniel Higgins, claiming a local kid had gone missing a few years back and no one had given him half as much thought.

  The media was leaning toward suicide as the reason for Dan’s disappearance, and they latched onto the notion that Dan’s mother was a callous, driven woman, whose ambition pushed her son too far. It was an unfair portrayal of Dan’s mother, who, when I watched her impromptu press conference, wore a cast of shock and despondency that went beyond normal grief. She’d answered some questions, standing alone on the steps of the Fairwich police station under a midday sun, her entourage milling about in the background, and she looked perfectly dressed and coiffed—hardly the sort of image one would expect from a grieving mother. Reporters mistook the moribund silence for apathy, but for me her expression was familiar. It was the look of defeat worn on a well-dressed corpse. Tears often imply some trace of hope, the catharsis of a wounded spirit that at a subconscious level knows things will get better. But when grief transcends normality it spurs no action, no catharsis or fear. There is only emptiness. It was something I felt I knew better than most.

  The weather predicted more snow until Sunday and then a thaw, with temperatures reaching the mid-50s, which threatened to flood the Quinnipiac. Waterfront residents were warned to clear their basements and keep an eye on river levels, as conditions could, as one weatherman put it, “be as severe as the great flood of ’64.” But that night the concept of a thaw was as far away as summer itself, and instead I put my head down and walked back to Thorren, the blinding snowfall filling my footsteps as fast as I left them behind.

  I stopped by Dr. Lang’s office to catch up on some work, and let myself in. The upper floors of Thorren were completely empty. There was usually at least one professor staying late in his or her office, warm light seeping out from under the door, but that evening I saw no one, and at every corner I half-expected to find Dan waiting for me, dressed in wrinkled clothes that smelled of pond water, leaning against the wall and smiling sadly.

  I have often asked myself why I didn’t put an end to all the drama when it would have been so easy—a phone call, a visit to the police station, a five-minute confession. The only answer I’ve ever come up with (and admittedly it’s not much of an answer) has been this: I didn’t do it because I felt I had no other alternative. I decided to see everything through to the end, no matter the outcome, no matter how surreal it got. When you believe you’ve escaped from Hell—and despite it all, Aberdeen was still paradise compared to that tenement in Stulton—nothing else seems that bad.

  Chapter 7

  Dr. Cade called an emergency meeting, leaving notes under our doors, written in his neat script on small sheets of thick cream-colored paper:

  I will be conducting a mandatory meeting this Friday at 5:00 P.M., on the status of the project and other important matters. Dinner will be served afterwards.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. H. William Cade

  I hadn’t seen Art since Thursday morning, but he banged open the front door at four-thirty and rushed upstairs without even taking off his coat, Nilus wagging his tail and following close behind. Howie stumbled in fifteen minutes later, glassy-eyed, his cheeks flushed and his movements slow and deliberate. His shirt was half-tucked, and there were red stains splattered across the front of it.

  I waited in the living room and saw Dr. Cade walking up the driveway, briefcase in hand, with a troubled look on his face that I don’t think I’d ever seen before.

  By some miracle Art managed to pull himself together and reappeared freshly shaven, clothes clean and pressed, hair slicked back looking like he’d just had it cut (afterward I found the remains in the upstairs bathroom sink).

  Even Howie had done his best—he’d downed a pot of coffee (I had to make it for him; black, no sugar) and showered and shaved, though a dollop of white cream still remained in his ear. From his fragmented story I pieced together an explanation for his semicomatose state: There had been some cocktail party at the Cellar, and Jacob Blum was selling various pills at five bucks a pop.

  We sat at the dining room table, Dr. Cade at the head, panning his gaze from me to Howie to Art. “These are, unquestionably, trying times,” Dr. Cade said gravely. “For all of us. But we must persist with our daily lives and obligations. It is the only way to assure we do not become paralyzed with grief. Especially now. Deadlines are fast approaching, and according to the schedule we are nearly two weeks behind. Therefore,” he folded his hands, placid as a Buddhist monk, “I must double the work load due by the end of next month—”

  Howie’s face registered mild surprise, muted by the drugs. Art’s expression remained the same.

  “—and I am dividing Daniel’s portion among the three of you. It is the only way we can be assured of making our deadlines.”

  Dr. Cade rested his chin atop his steepled hands. “Dan’s well-being is of great concern, obviously, and no prize or contractual obligation should change our priorities in any way,” he said.

  “He is our dear friend, and until he has returned home safely I do not expect any of you to be at your best. Conversely, we should not be at our worst, either.” He glanced at Howie. “Labor omnia vincit. Let us distract ourselves with work, so the days do not pass too slowly while we wait for news of our friend.”

  Dr. Cade pulled his jacket sleeve back and looked at his watch. “I have hired a chef for the evening,” he said. “Clive Besk, head chef at the Riverside Hotel. He will be arriving shortly with a fully prepared meal. I’m sorry I will not be able to join you for dinner, but I promised Daniel’s mother I would take her to the new Italian restaurant in the village.”

  “Orezi’s?” Art asked.

  Dr. Cade nodded.

  “How is she doing?” Art said.

  “Quite well, in light of the considerable stress she must find herself under. Can you imagine?” He adjusted his tie. “In a way, the four of you are the closest thing I have to children, a
nd knowing that just one may be in danger…well,” he stood and pushed in his chair, “it’s something I prefer to not think about.”

  He bid us goodnight, wished us well, and then went upstairs through the kitchen.

  Art drummed his fingers on the table.

  “Orezi’s,” Howie said, staring off into space.

  Despite Clive Besk’s impressive culinary skills, it was not the most engaging of dinners.

  The next day I walked from Main Street all the way to East Fairwich, ending up at Posey Street, where Ellen lived. It was a beautiful day at last, clear and calm, everywhere puddles of melting snow and piles of gravelly slush and icicles dripping holes into pockmarked drifts. I rang the doorbell to Ellen’s apartment and tossed a few snowballs against a telephone pole while waiting. A crow perched upon the edge of a dripping gutter. I rang the doorbell again, waited for another minute, and left.

  I got back onto Main Street just as a dark car splashed past, turning down Posey and continuing to the end. Sunlight glinted off its windows in sharp streaks, and I looked back, thinking maybe it was Ellen’s Saab; instead I saw it was a black Jaguar.

  It turned into the driveway without slowing, skidding to a stop, lurching forward on its wheels. Howie got out—sunglasses, turtleneck, paper bag shaped like a wine bottle in hand—and Ellen exited the passenger side. Her red scarf trailed in the wind, and Howie said something and she laughed, black-gloved hand to her cheek. I started to raise my hand and shout out to them, and then Ellen stretched her legs over the puddle-spotted driveway, looking for a dry path, and Howie reached out and took her hand.

  Their hands clasped, Howie’s fingers encircling her wrist; there was her laughter, his careless smile. I thought of the photo of Howie in Ellen’s portfolio, Howie just waking up, messy red hair, shirtless, pillow lines creasing his face. Medieval fortune-tellers sometimes looked for the future in the hidden faces within the folds and wrinkles of a pillow. Maybe I should have done the same, I thought.

  I looked again, and saw her slender legs, clad in black tights, and her black shoes, and her gray skirt at mid-thigh. Black sweater wrapped tightly around her torso, narrow waist, a gentle swell of breasts. Howie’s hand brushing her side. Amor de lonh. He drew her in and she poked him in the side with a quick jab of her finger, and then they walked up the front steps. A breeze rattled some branches nearby.

  I walked away, not back the way I came but onward, toward the edge of town, passing by the clay-green Fairwich water tower and the soot-blackened St. Ignatius Church, blinded by the sun ricocheting off silvery puddles of melted snow. I stopped at some wood-and-brick tavern filled with old men and dark paneling and silence, and I took a seat in the back, on a cushioned bench with a thick wooden table, near an unplugged jukebox that sat forlorn and dusty. Chintzy heraldic crests adorned the walls, a white prancing stallion crossed with two gray swords, underlit by orange glass-covered wall sconces. A row of old men sat at the bar, their heads down, and the bartender moved to each one swiftly and silently, refilling their glasses, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, long white cloth draped over one shoulder, bald head gleaming softly under the bar lights.

  I sat back against the cushioned bench and stared at the ceiling, letting the shadows dissolve and form into whatever shapes they desired: swirling molecules, dark stripes, wavering geometric blocks swinging from the crisscrossing beams. My thoughts were discordant and disconnected: the black gleam of Howie’s Jaguar, the dead cat I’d seen with Nicole in the forest, the stoner who’d waited on our table at the Whistle Stop, back when Dan was alive and we’d gone apple-picking. Labor omnia vincit. Amor vincit omnia. I laughed to myself.

  Something moved on the edge of my vision—a woman, clad in an old green and white gingham apron and a sour mood, her graying hair corralled and pinned atop her head. She placed a small napkin on my table and glanced back in the direction of the bar before returning her wary gaze to me.

  “You want a soda or something?” she said.

  “With scotch, please.”

  She raised her eyebrows and put one hand on her hip.

  “Is that so?” she said. Her voice was sharp and rusty, like an old razor blade.

  I smiled. “Unless you’re fresh out.”

  A pause. “Ain’t that something,” she said, not unkindly, and she sauntered away, shaking her head, one hand still on her hip.

  A couple of minutes later she returned with a glass of soda, tinted caramel from a splash of scotch. I took a sip, fished in my pocket for some change, and then located the pay phone, near the restrooms.

  I dialed Nicole’s number and leaned against the wall, glass in hand. The sign on the door in front of me read GENTS. On the third ring Nicole picked up. I could hear the TV in the background, one of those vile game shows she liked to watch.

  “Hey Nicole,” I said, taking another gulp. “It’s Eric. Listen, are you—”

  “Holy shit, Eric, can you believe it? I mean, my God, you must be totally freaked out. If you need anything—”

  “Hold on,” I said. One of the old men turned to look at me, and I turned around, facing the darkness. “What are you talking about?” I said, lowering my voice.

  Nicole squawked in disbelief. “You haven’t heard? Oh my God, I don’t want to be the first to tell you but if anything, I can relate to what you’re going through…Jesus, Eric, they found his body this morning. I just saw it on the news. I’m so sorry, I know—”

  I hung up and remained there a moment longer, staring at the GENTS sign, and then I left, tossing a five-dollar bill onto the bar. It wasn’t until I was past Posey Street that I realized I was running, and that I still held my glass of scotch and soda. It had spilled all over my arm, soaking my sleeve and giving off an odor that reminded me of the first time I met Howie.

  I arrived by cab on campus and found students standing in groups in doorways and lobbies, some of them crying and hugging each other, some just talking and looking around warily, waiting to see what was going to happen next. I wandered from building to building, looking for someone to ask information of—Where did they find him? Who found him? What are they going to do now?—but everyone I saw looked just as lost as I, so instead I went to Dr. Lang’s office.

  The secretary was gone but I found Dr. Lang there, seated at his desk, talking on the phone. When he saw me his eyes lit, and he hastily said goodbye to the caller and beckoned me into his office. Deep lines spread across his forehead.

  “I trust you’ve heard the reports,” he said solemnly. He sighed, leaned back into his chair, and rested his chin on his chest, jowls serving as a cushion. “You must be very upset.”

  I nodded. I don’t know what I felt, really. It was hard to pinpoint any particular emotion, as if so many had tried to push through at the same time and had gotten jammed in the entrance.

  “I lost my son, you know. Many years ago.” Dr. Lang smoothed his tie. “The police found his dog, wandering around Hyde Park, in Chicago. I couldn’t bear to take the dog in. My wife told me I was crazy to let that poor animal go to the shelter…” He inhaled deeply. “At least with Daniel there’s closure now. It’s better that we know for certain. Not knowing is far worse, no matter how terrible the truth may be.”

  I looked into his eyes. “The truth can be terrible, sometimes,” I said.

  Dr. Lang nodded, and quoted Emerson. “There is always a choice between truth and repose,” he said. “Take which you please; you can never have both.”

  The infirmary treated a few students throughout the day. Some had fainted, a fight broke out between two seniors standing in line at Campus Bean, three freshman girls showed up for class drunk, and Louise Hulse, our crazy RD at Paderborne, got into a screaming match with a student and security had to be called. Reporters descended like jackals, nipping and tearing at the flanks of school officials and students alike, dispersed by shouts of anger from administrative representatives, only to re-form and stalk other hapless prey, anyone and everyone who had even the most indirec
t connection to Dan. On my way to Paderborne a tiny blonde thirty-something woman with a bob haircut and deep red suit rushed up to me, bearded cameraman in tow, and thrust a black microphone at my face. How has this tragedy affected you? Did you know Daniel Higgins personally? What do you think this says about your college? Have you felt overwhelmed by academic pressures recently?

  I put my hand up to my face like a movie star hounded by paparazzi, and rushed away, into Paderborne, to my cold room, where I closed the curtains and crawled into bed fully clothed. The silence, which before had been so damning, was now a welcome sanctuary. It was as if I’d never done anything wrong, and I convinced myself that perhaps that was the case. After all, I thought, lying on my bed and staring at the blank ceiling, maybe it was a dream. What proof is there one way or the other?

  I met with the police early that evening, called into the station for what they said was a “formality.” It was less than that; it was like a mall survey, complete with clipboard and rapid-fire questions, none as difficult as I imagined, nothing at all like the scenes I’d watched in movies and television crime dramas. There was no two-way mirror or pacing cop with cigarette jutting from mouth and hands thrust deep into pockets. I was put in a small room with a long table, given a powdered doughnut and a cup of hot chocolate, and asked a series of questions about Dan’s behavior in the months leading up to what police were now calling “the accident.” Officer Inman was there, standing in the background while Officer Bellis tapped his foot nervously and rattled off the questions. Any unusual behavior that you can think of? Did he seem more withdrawn than usual? Did he give you anything of his, any unexpected gifts?