by William Gear
Couldn’t … understand them.
For long moments, she just sucked in breaths, as if they’d soothe the pain.
Somewhere she heard whimpering, and wondered if it was her own.
Her arms ached. That reality came filtering through the pain in her head.
Something terrible.
Yes.
She tried to cling to the memory, but it slipped away.
Got to get loose.
She heard herself whine as she tried to rise. Through the jab of pain, she felt her foot slip, and flopped. She was half off the bed, her weight pulling her arms.
Slowly, she managed to get her feet under her.
Legs trembling, she lifted.
Shifted.
Raising her head, she looked around. Her mirror was broken. The bedroom door was swung wide. She could see late afternoon sunlight slanting into the kitchen as if the front door were open.
The whimpering came again.
From her angle, Sarah could see someone’s arm on the tabletop, the wrist tied to the rear table leg.
It made no sense.
Who’d tie someone over a tabletop?
She swallowed, her mouth and tongue dried and sticking.
Think!
Her dress was wadded around her feet, the rounded moons of her bare buttocks goosefleshed from the cold. In agonizing slowness, she crawled onto the bed, felt the cool air blow around her breasts.
She looked down; her breasts hung and hurt. She’d seen bruises like that before.
In that instant, she lived it again. Hands were grasping her, cupping her breasts and squeezing, bringing a torn scream from between her gritted lips. With it came the jolting as she was taken from behind. Each thrust deep and brutal, as if to drive up through her center and into her heart.
And then it was gone. A mere memory. But from when?
Crawling forward, she used her teeth. Her head still radiated a splitting pain, as if an ax were driven into her skull; some animal instinct kept her chewing on the ropes until she worried the knot loose, and pulled her hand free. The skin on her wrists was pulled raw and bloody.
Her fingers thick, she undid the second knot, pulled her hand free, and slowly eased herself from the bed.
As she stood, the ruins of her dress slid down to pool around her feet.
Dizzy.
Damn! The room seemed to sway and dip. She braced a hand on the wall to steady herself.
Stepping out of the mound of cloth, she reached down, feeling the crusty dried smear of semen on her pubic hair and thighs.
Again the memory flashed of those violent thrusts, the banging against her buttocks, the gripping hands. She remembered his cry, how he’d tensed and jerked his penis this way and that.
But Bret wouldn’t …
A fog seemed to float through her blinding headache.
“Not Bret,” she whispered. And something in her soul sickened and curled.
She staggered to the door and stopped. Fought to understand what she was seeing.
Bret lay on his back, one of his feet out the door. He stared unblinking up at the ceiling. Cold as she was, he had to be chilled. Why didn’t he close the damn door?
The whimper came again.
Sarah squinted against the pain. A woman was sprawled facedown over the table, her arms tied by the wrists to the table’s back legs. Her dress was wadded around her feet. Hanging as she was, her knees were up off the floor. Red hair? Aggie?
What was she doing tied to the table?
Bret wouldn’t …
Sarah staggered sideways as the room spun. Braced herself on the doorjamb. Her stomach tickled with the urge to throw up.
God, if she could just remember …
But the pain, it just kept spearing through her head, drowning every thought that tried to form. Her vision kept swimming.
And then she bent double, throwing up as her stomach squirmed and spasmed. Her balance fled. She sagged down in the doorway, gasping, the world spinning …
Hands lifted her, and through her swimming confusion, she heard someone say, “Get her onto the bed.”
“Bret?” she whispered.
“’Tis Pat,” the voice told her in a familiar brogue. “Pat O’Reilly, Mrs. Anderson. Who did this?”
“Did this?” She stumbled over the words. Damn! Her head hurt.
“Was it Parmelee?”
Sarah blinked, opened her eyes to a stabbing of pain. Memory flooded back. “Win Parmelee. Shot Bret. Killed him when he opened the door. Never had a chance.”
“That piece of shit doesn’t know it yet, but he is dead,” a cold voice said from the bedroom doorway.
Sarah made herself focus in the dim twilight. Someone had a lamp going in the front room. In profile she could see the man. “George Nichols?”
“Aye,” O’Reilly told her. “Here, let me help raise you up and get a blanket around yer shoulders, Mrs. Anderson.”
“How’s Aggie?”
“We got her cut loose. Did Parmelee do that? Cut her face like that?”
The memory came back, the screams, the banging of the table against the cabin wall. Sarah had been tied, fighting the ropes, but she’d heard it all.
“Said she’d betrayed him. That he knew she was a lying cunt. Followed her here. Said he’d set her place afire. That it was burning to the ground. That she might have given him Bret, but he couldn’t let treason or desertion pass.”
She swallowed hard, fighting tears. “I couldn’t see what he was doing. But I … I could hear.”
“Well, he burned it all right. Mick and the girls barely got out alive. It’s ashes, lassie.”
She settled onto the bed as O’Reilly wrapped a blanket around her. It was coming back, tumbling into her memory like some eruption from hell.
Bret is dead.
She rose up again and staggered to her feet, shaking off O’Reilly’s restraining hands. “No, Pat. I’ve got to see my husband.”
“But Mrs. Anderson!”
“Let her go, Pat,” Nichols said, stepping back from the door. “She has to see with her own eyes.”
A bearded man was dabbing at Aggie’s face with a wet cloth, cleaning blood from a series of slashes. Aggie cried and shook at each touch. What had been beautiful was now a hideous mask of blood and gaping slices.
Sarah swallowed hard, wondering why Parmelee hadn’t done the same to her. The enormity of it didn’t seem real. She would wake from this nightmare. The world would be the same. It had to be the same.
Sarah walked over, heedless of the stunned men staring in the doorway, and bent over Bret’s body. Reaching out from the blanket, she ran her hand along his cold cheeks. When she tried to pull his eyelids down over his gray, staring eyes, they remained half-lidded, and in a way, more terrible.
His pants were damp from where his bladder had let loose. His lips, dry, were already receding to expose his teeth.
As she ran a hand over his chest where the muzzle blast had set the cloth on fire, it disintegrated and blew away in the breeze coming in the door. With her fingertips, she felt the bullet holes, dried and bloody.
Then, closing her eyes, she wept.
82
May 7, 1867
Hip propped on the desk in his surgery, Doc sipped at a cup of coffee and reflected on how peculiar his practice had become. “Mrs. B” as they referred to her, had come in the back way. She was one of Denver’s most prominent and respected women. Active in numerous causes including the Women’s Union Aid Society, she was the wife of an influential newspaperman in Denver politics and society. Nor was she the only well-placed and respectable patient he had; to his amusement, they all arrived through the back door rather than be seen entering the front.
Behind the privacy screen, Mrs. B now divested herself of her petticoats and stockings, laying them carefully upon the screen.
Thus prepared, but still wearing her dress, she stepped out, gave him a nervous smile, and settled herself onto his examination bench.
<
br /> “Before we attend to the problem,” Doc told her, “I’m going to give you an examination. To do so, I need you to relax. First, I’m going to look into your mouth and ears. Have you had any trouble with your teeth?”
“No.”
“I’m going to use a tube to listen to your heart. Have you had any pain there?”
“No.”
“Now, this isn’t meant to embarrass you, but have you noticed anything unusual when you empty your bowels?”
“Doctor?”
“Mrs. B, any pain, any odd colors, or odors, especially blood, can indicate a problem. And if you ever do notice anything irregular, you come see me or Dr. Elsner immediately.”
“I see. No. None.”
Doc proceeded, finally attending to her actual complaint by relieving her pelvic congestion.
As she was dressing, she asked, “You are a puzzle, Dr. Hancock. No other physician has ever asked me so many questions, or poked or prodded so. They say you are the best, is that really necessary?”
Doc smiled at her over the screen, having retreated to his now cold coffee. “Mrs. B, I was trained in a forward-thinking institution that treated medicine as a science. Bodies are systems. If I can detect some malady early, I might be able to treat it before it gets bad. We’re going to see remarkable changes in medicine in the next few years. Even out here, cut off from the world, I’ve heard about miraculous surgeries taking place back East as a result of things we learned during the war.”
“Indeed?”
Doc studied her over the rim of his coffee cup. “For example, Mrs. B, have you ever thought of treating your congestion yourself?”
“You mean, touching myself?” Her eyes widened. “Down there? But to … I mean, a proper lady…”
“Yes, yes, you’ve been told all of your life that women who relieve themselves will become sexually obsessed and crazed creatures who slip out into the night in search of the first man to cross their paths. The kindest word I can use in reply is hogwash. Several of my most respected patients who were suffering severely have begun to treat themselves. I’ve monitored them closely, and they all report that if anything, they find their lives significantly less stressful and their home life more settled.”
“Then why has no one mentioned this?”
Doc told her dryly, “Why should the men in my profession publicize self-relief when they’re making two to five dollars with each office call?”
She studied him thoughtfully as she dressed. “I almost believe you, Dr. Hancock.”
He walked to his cabinet, took down a bottle of sugar pills, and handed them to her as she stepped out from behind the screen. “Should you decide to try it yourself, recline under your covers and think about your husband, about how much he loves you, and massage yourself as I have. If, afterward, you have any discomforting thoughts about strange men, you take one of those pills and come see me immediately.”
Mrs. B studied the pills. “You’re sure this will work?”
“I want to see you in a month. Let’s see if this new therapy works. And, I want you to bring the pills back to me unopened if you don’t need them.”
“Return the pills?”
“I’m betting I get my bottle back, and I’ll refund you the cost of the medicine.”
She continued to study him through skeptical eyes. “You really are such a puzzle, Dr. Hancock.” She opened her purse. “How much do I owe you?”
“Five dollars, Mrs. B. Two for the visit and treatment, three for the pills.”
“They are expensive pills.”
“Potent and effective medicine—unlike the flavored alcohol and sweetened opiates sold by the street vendors. But I’m betting that next month, you’ll bring them back unopened for a full refund.”
“You’ve always had these returned?”
“All but once. And in that case the young woman’s problem wasn’t hysteria brought on by congestion. Quite the opposite. She just has … well, appetites.”
“Good day, Dr. Hancock.”
“My best, ma’am. And please give your husband my regards. I appreciated his last editorial on cleaning up the city.” Doc watched her slip out the back door.
Yes, indeed, what a twist on the profession. Had he built his surgery in Memphis, he would no doubt have refused to treat the demimonde and the destitute. But on the odd chance that he had, he would have built a back-alley passage to obscure their arrival and departure from public view.
Here, in Denver, the city’s prominent and socially upright slipped in the back while the riffraff entered and left brazenly through the front door.
“You are indeed a puzzle.” Doc toasted himself and drained the last of his coffee.
He unlocked the door and stepped out into the office where Butler stood in a cluster of men. They crowded solicitously around someone seated on his waiting-room bench.
“Butler? What’s wrong?” he asked as he poured another cup of coffee from the pot on the tin stove. The men turned, Butler moving out of the way. A woman sagged on the bench, her face swathed in bloody bandages.
A burly fellow, a miner from his thick wool clothing, straightened. “We was tolt t’ bring her here, Doc.” The man had his hat in his hands, wringing it as if it were a wet washcloth. “Been on the road all night, we have, sir. We was told that her kind might not be well received at the new hospital, but that she’d be treated here.”
Doc pursed his lips. “Who’s financially responsible?”
“Sir?” The miner tilted his head as if he didn’t understand.
“Who is paying?”
“Oh, why, that be Mr. O’Reilly.”
“O’Reilly?”
“Up to Central City, sir.”
“Ah, that O’Reilly.” Curiouser and curiouser? So, was she his mistress?
“Bring her in.”
Doc led the way as they steadied the wounded woman, and she slowly walked into the surgery. As Butler saw to seating her, Doc stopped the miner, asking in a low voice, “What happened?”
“Ah, an’ ’twas bad, sir. A murder … an’ two women raped. An’ this one”—he crossed himself—“the fiend slashed her face fer good measure.”
“In one of the houses?”
“Nay, ’twas in a man’s home. Kilt he was. An’ his wife and this one raped.”
“O’Reilly did this?”
“Oh, God no, sir! The fam’ly, they’s friends o’ Mr. O’Reilly’s. He’s the one as found ’em, he did.”
“I see.” Doc stepped forward. “All right, all of you, outside, please. Let me see to my work.”
“Sergeant Kershaw,” Butler’s voice rang out. “I need an escort detail. Baker, Mathews, and Vail, see to removing these men.”
The miners stared incredulously at Butler.
Ahead of Doc’s shooing hands, they retreated as he urged them toward the door. Turning to the woman, he told Butler, “Lock the door behind them if you would.”
As Butler did, Doc studied the bloody cloth bandages. They looked like they’d been made from strips of torn dress poplin. “I’m Doc Hancock, ma’am. Do you have a name?”
“Aggie,” she whispered weakly. “God, Doc, just let me die.”
“You are going to feel my hands on your body, Aggie. I’m going to press to see if you are hurt anywhere else.” He noticed the raw wounds on her wrists. “Were you tied up?”
“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “He took me from behind.”
“Well … we’ll check down there, too. But does anything else hurt? I’m going to press along your ribs, around your breasts—”
“Don’t! They’re so sore. All bruised black. He tried to pull them off my body as he was shooting his cum.”
Her language left no doubt about her profession. From the quality of her ruined and bloodstained dress, she came from one of the finer houses. “What about the other woman?”
“He didn’t cut Mrs. Anderson. Not like me. He just hit her, knocked her out, and tied her up. She kept coming to and passing ou
t as he dog-fucked her. Reckon it saved her from … from this. Mrs. Anderson just plain collapsed there at the end, and slap her as he might, he couldn’t get her to come to.”
Doc turned to his water. “I’m going to soak these bandages off, Aggie. Once I know what I’m dealing with, I’m going to give you chloroform before I start fixing things.”
“Sure you shouldn’t just let me die, Doc? What he done to my face? I’m going to be a monster. I been beautiful all my life. Don’t think I can live with the way people will look at me, watching their faces screw up with … Ain’t the word ‘revulsion’?”
“Aggie, why don’t you let me see what I can do?”
“He’s the best,” Butler chimed in. “Why, the men and I have seen him work miracles! Indians, whores, and Yankees, he’s fixed them all.”
Butler’s expression pinched. “Why, no, Corporal, I don’t think Doc could have saved Lieutenant Fisher, his brains were blown clear out of his skull.”
“Butler, I don’t think Aggie needs to hear—”
“Doc couldn’t have done a thing about those poor souls who burned at Prairie Grove. It was bad enough that the hogs were eating the cooked corpses. Good thing there weren’t hogs at Chickamauga.”
Something in Doc snapped. He whirled, finger pointing. “Butler, I want you and your goddamned delusions out of my office! Stop being a damned nuisance! I have a woman’s life to save here, and I can’t do it with a lunatic discussing dead Confederates with other dead Confederates behind my damned back!”
“But Doc—”
“Out! Just … just go away! Leave me to my work.”
Butler’s jaw dropped, his blue eyes wide and pained. Then he straightened, knocked off a perfect salute, and wheeled on his heel.
Doc watched him march stiff-backed to the door, unbolt it, and close it behind him.
“Doc?” Aggie whispered. “Was that…? I mean…”
Guilt rose as his anger drained. “Butler’s my crazy brother. I didn’t mean that. I’ll apologize to him tonight, beg his forgiveness. I should be a better man than I am. I get so frustrated sometimes. With myself probably. For all of my gifts when it comes to medicine, I can’t cure the one person who means more to me than the world.”
“Sometimes, Doc,” she said softly, “all the best of our dreams end in ruins.”
