by Rick Yancey
I understood my duty in that hour. Understood it with greater clarity than I had in Aden, on Socotra, or even on Elizabeth Street. I understood all too well. What are you? he had asked. It was a disingenuous question. He knew very well what I was, what I had always been without either of us understanding it, much less acknowledging it. And what did it matter if we did? Would it have changed anything?
There is no place where it begins. No place where it ends.
I called down to the desk and ordered up a pot of tea. I mixed a healthy dosage of sleeping draft into his cup and pressed the cup into his hands. Drink, Doctor. Drink. After a few moments he allowed me to lead him to his room, where he threw himself upon the bed and curled into a ball, and I was reminded of his father, whom he had found in the same position years before, naked as the day he was born, dead. I closed the door and returned to the sitting room, where Mr. Faulk was waiting for me. He was contemplating the head, his massive brow furrowed in existential concentration. He, too, understood his duty in that hour.
“It’s a shame, Mr. Henry. I always liked the old man.”
“The last of his kind,” I said, not without some irony. “He must have changed his mind and gone to see Competello himself. I only hope he brought Walker with him and that that head is bobbing somewhere in the East River.”
I threw myself upon the sofa and closed my eyes. I pressed my fingertips hard against the lids until red roses blossomed in the darkness.
“Slate clean now,” Mr. Faulk said.
“I suppose that is so,” I acknowledged. “From Competello’s perspective. But true recompense demands that my head be in that box, Mr. Faulk.”
“All in all, better it’s still on your shoulders, Mr. Henry.”
I opened my eyes. “On Elizabeth Street, between Hester and Grand, there is a little restaurant; I cannot remember the name.”
He was nodding. “I think I know the place.”
“Good. Start there. If the padrone isn’t there, someone will be who knows where you can find him.” I fished one of Warthrop’s cards from my pocket—I always carried a supply with me—and handed it to him. “Tell him the doctor requests a meeting.”
“When?” Mr. Faulk asked.
“Nine o’clock.”
“Here?”
I shook my head. “He won’t come here. It must be a public place—or at least a crowded one.” I gave him the address.
“The doctor?”
“I gave him enough drug to knock out a horse.”
“He shouldn’t be left alone,” he said. “I know a man, a very trustworthy fellow.”
“All right. But two would be better. One outside the door and one downstairs in the lobby.”
He nodded, and again his eyes were drawn to the box.
“What’s he got in his mouth?”
“The cause of it all. I don’t know what brings Warthrop more torment—the death of his best friend, the death of that thing, or the death of something not quite so corporeal.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Henry?”
“It wasn’t Yorick who gave the Dane such distress, now was it?”
“You’ve lost me there, Mr. Henry. Yorick? Dane?”
I waved my hand. “It’s a very old story. Out of date.”
He left on his errand and, after a few minutes to tidy up, I left on mine. I left the box sitting on the table; von Helrung’s bright eyes followed me all the way to the door. The day had turned very cold, though the sky was clear, and there is no burden, there is no weight upon your shoulders. I arrived at Riverside Drive feeling as if I had stepped into a dream, or perhaps out of one: My mind was as clear as the sky. The butler informed me that Lilly and her mother were away shopping, but I was free to wait for them in the parlor, which I did with the patience of Job, sipping a gin and bitters and watching the sunlight slip across the floor, listening to the mournful droom-droom of the tugboats and the occasional sputter of a motorcar chugging past. The butler sent in a plate of cucumber sandwiches, which were very good, but I desired something of more substance. I finished my third gin and then took a nap. I woke with a start, for a moment ignorant of my location, thinking I was back at Harrington Lane and the doctor was in the next room reading, dinner was through, the plates washed and stacked, and this was the best part of the evening, when Warthrop gave me some peace and I felt a little less burdened, the weight upon my shoulders a little less heavy. From the back of the house I heard the laughter of women, more joyous than water in a fountain, and Lilly came in wearing a taupe-colored dress and her feet were bare; I’d never seen her feet and forced myself not to stare.
“And here you are!” she said. “Why? And please don’t begin the conversation by saying you had nothing better to do or some other insulting remark that you mistake for wit.”
“I wanted to see you.”
“Now that is an excellent answer, Mr. Henry.” She was in a good mood. She took off her hat, shook free long curls. The entire maneuver caused my mouth to go dry, and I thought of having the butler fetch me another drink.
“But it is rather awkward, don’t you think?” she went on. “Since we have already said good-bye.”
“I didn’t,” I said. “Say good-bye.”
“You must have news. No, you must, I can see it by the look on your face. You’re easier to read than you may think, Mr. Henry.”
“For you, perhaps.”
“Honesty and flattery? It must not be news; you must want something.”
I shook my head and sucked on a piece of ice. “There is nothing I want.”
She leaned forward and rested her forearms upon her knees. Her eyes really were identical to her uncle’s. It was unnerving.
“Then what is the news?”
“T. cerrejonensis is no more.”
She gasped. “And Dr. Warthrop?”
“Nothing will ever kill Pellinore Warthrop. He is as immutable as air.”
“Then you saved him—but not the prize.”
I nodded, rubbing my hands together as if they were cold. They were not. “I saved him . . .”
“You saved him, but.”
I nodded again. “I killed two men and almost a third.”
“A third of a man?”
I laughed in spite of myself. “That’s one way to put it.”
She thought for a moment. “A child?”
I nodded a third time and rubbed my hands.
“Why would you almost kill a child, Will?”
I could not meet her gaze. I waved my hand absently in the air, as if to shoo away a fly. “There was . . . it is very hard not . . . things were happening very fast, and you have never experienced those moments, those very fast moments, when you’ve only an instant to decide, well, no time really to decide anything, because you’ve decided long beforehand or it is too late, too late to decide anything . . .”
I wasn’t looking at her, but I knew she was looking at me, studying my face carefully, for what I could not say.
“You knew you would kill the two men,” she began helpfully.
Relieved, I said, “Yes. I knew that.”
“But not the child.”
“A boy,” I clarified. “He was a boy. Around eleven—no more than twelve. He might have been small for his age, in this weathered old cap, and thin, like he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks . . .”
She raised her voice suddenly, and I started in my chair. “Mother! Come in, Mother; I know you’re there.”
And she was: Mrs. Bates appeared in the doorway and said with a small, chagrined smile, “Oh, I thought I heard Will Henry. How are you, Will? Would you like something to eat?”
Lilly smiled at me and said, “Would you like to go to my room? Privacy is such a precious commodity in the city.” And then she turned her smile upon her mother.
Once upstairs, she closed the door and threw herself across the bed, rested her chin in her hands, and pointed toward the Queen Anne chair situated by the window.
“She spies on me all the ti
me,” she confided.
“Is that why you went abroad to study?”
“One of the reasons.”
A small fire had been built to chase away the afternoon chill. It popped and crackled; the flames leapt and licked. My mouth was dry again; I should have brought my glass of ice.
“So there was a skinny little boy that you almost killed. Did you stop yourself or did you merely wound him?”
“Neither. Warthrop stopped me.”
“Did he? Well, there may be some hope for him after all.”
I could not be sure, but it sounded like she put a slight emphasis on the word “him.” I decided not to dwell on it. “I thought you might like to know.”
“About the boy or the fact that you killed two people or that Warthrop is alive?”
“All of those things.”
“And you are alive.”
“Yes, of course. That would go without saying.”
“And the creature was lost during the rescue?”
“Afterward.”
“But how could that be, Will?” She was swinging her legs back and forth, bare ankles crossed. “I thought the Irish had T. cerrejonensis.”
“Apparently, the Italians succeeded in wresting it from them.”
“Part of their favor to Warthrop. And then they killed it because you killed two of them.”
“Yes.”
“They must not have understood its value.”
My face was hot. I was sure it was the fire. “I’m not sure they find much value in life period.”
“Warthrop must be crushed.”
“Yes, that would be accurate.”
“And very angry with you.”
“That is a mild description.”
“He’ll get over it. He always does, doesn’t he?”
“He tries.”
“You should point out to him that you saved his life.”
“He doesn’t look at it that way.”
“Well, he wouldn’t. He is an ass. I’ve never understood why Uncle loves him so.”
I cleared my throat. “He thought of Warthrop as a son.”
“Uncle never had children. So to him practically everyone is. He has a very soft heart for a doctor of monstrumology.”
“The last of his kind.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Only . . . only it always surprised me, your uncle’s kindness, his . . . gentleness. What he was didn’t fit what he did.”
“You are speaking of him in the past tense.”
“Am I? I didn’t mean to.”
“Has something happened to Uncle Abram, Will?”
I looked into the untainted blue, clear all the way down, and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She nodded. “I thought so.”
“What? What did you think?”
“That he’s too kind and gentle and much too trusting of people.” She wrinkled her nose. “He would have made an excellent deacon or professor or poet, or even a scientist practicing in any field but aberrant biology. I suppose that’s why your master loves him so much in return—he sees in Uncle the possibility that you don’t have to become a monster to hunt them.”
“Well,” I said with a small laugh. “You don’t have to hunt them to become that.”
She cocked her head at me, a smile playing on her lips. “I saw Samuel today.”
“Who?” For a moment my mind went blank.
“Isaacson, the mediocrity. He told me the most remarkable story—so remarkable it cannot be true. Or maybe I have that backward. So remarkable it must be true.”
“I dangled him over the Brooklyn Bridge and threatened to drop him if he didn’t confess to—”
She raised her hand. “Please, I’d rather not hear it a second time.”
“I am surprised, to be honest, Lilly. I didn’t think he had it in him to tell you.”
“I am curious about something, though. If he had said yes to your question, would you have dropped him for what he had done?”
“Does it matter?” I asked. “I didn’t drop him, in any case.”
I stood up. I felt extraordinarily large; I even flinched, expecting my head to smack into the ceiling. She did not move as I advanced. She lay still as I came on. I knelt beside the bed to bring my face level with her eyes.
“The monster is dead; the monster never dies. You may catch it; you will never catch it. Hunt it for a thousand years and it will forever exceed your grasp. Kill it, dissect it, place its parts in a jar or scatter them to the four corners of the world, but it remains forever one ten-thousandth of an inch outside your range of vision. It is the same monster; only its face changes. I might have killed him, but it doesn’t matter one way or the other. The next one I will, and the next, and the one after that, and the faces will change but not the monster, not the monster.”
There were tears in her faultless eyes and the inarticulate fear in them was not too different from the fear in the dead eyes of the head in the box. And then she grabbed my face in her hands, and her hands were cool and slickly dry as silk. She pressed her lips gently onto mine and spoke, “Don’t be afraid,” mobile moist lips rubbing over mine, “Don’t be afraid,” and I saw the head with the amber eyes in her uncle’s open mouth, the eyes that held me that shamed me that trapped me that crushed me that ground me into dust.
I was on the bed—I don’t remember climbing up, but I found myself crushing her against me, as I was crushed by the amber eye, and she both resisted and yielded, fought and surrendered, and there was loathing in her longing, fear in her joy, and the unspeakable sorrow of insatiable fullness.
And in me the thing unwinding.
“Stop,” she said, pushing against my chest. “Will. Stop.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I don’t care what you want.”
She slapped me across the cheek. I flung her away and fell off the bed—literally, for my feet slipped out from under me on the wooden floor. I hit my knee hard and grunted with pain.
“You’re not being honest with me,” she said from above.
“About what?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“I’m leaving.”
“I think that would be best.”
“There is something I have to do.”
“I won’t ask you.”
“I wouldn’t tell you if you did.”
“Then why bring it up? Just go.”
“I just wanted to say . . .”
“Yes?”
“. . . just one thing. One thing before I go.”
“Then?”
“Then I will go.”
“Then you should say it.”
“If he had said yes on that bridge, I wouldn’t have dropped him.”
“Really?” She laughed. “I would have.”
FIVE
Warthrop slept on. I was wide awake; I would never sleep again though I lived for the next one thousand years.
I arrived at the Zeno Club at a quarter till eight and requested a private room. There were no private rooms. I slipped the manager a hundred-dollar bill. Oh, how could he have forgotten about the private room? There had been a last-minute cancellation. The room was cold. A fire was lit. Dark-paneled, thick carpeted, lined with bookshelves and crowded with overstuffed furniture, with paintings of stern men hanging on the walls. The room had a second door that opened to a back hallway. It was perfect. I handed the manager another twenty and told him to admit my guests when they arrived. I ordered a Coca-Cola and sat in the chair closest to the fireplace; I was cold down to my bones. I couldn’t shake the memory of that afternoon. The most chaste of kisses . . . Had I passed to her my curse, my blessing? After leaving Riverside Drive, I had wandered the streets, feeling as if I were descending a long winding stair, a descent not measured in feet or miles but in hours and years. Darkness closed round me; faces receded into the grasping dark. Down, down I went, and there was no terminus; there was no bottom to reach. A loud voice c
alled out to me, a woman’s voice, and I looked up and saw a face painted garishly, her blouse unbuttoned immodestly, winking and waving from her superior height, I at the bottom and she at the top: Come up, deary, come up. And I imagined climbing the stairs of the tenement and the smell of cabbages and the reek of human desperation and her sour-faced broker who collected the money and protected her from the overzealous sailor or merchant marine, and then I imagined her room and the roughness of the boards beneath my bare feet and the roughness of her hands and the heaviness of her scent, and would it not be better to touch and be touched than to never touch at all? And then I’d hurried on, seething with that most dangerous kind of anger: the anger quietly conceived.
By a quarter past nine, in the private room of New York’s most exclusive club, that anger had departed, like a recalcitrant child retreating to his alcove to pout, and I was empty. My mind was as unruffled as the surface of a mountain lake.
The outer door swung open and Mr. Faulk stepped into the room, followed by a short, burly man wearing a wool jacket and a bowler hat. Behind him was a jowly, taller, and much older gentleman in a calf-length mink coat, carrying a shiny black cane. Mr. Faulk divested him of his outer garment, but his companion declined. I rose and crossed the room.
“Don Francesco,” I said with a bow. “Buon giorno.”
“Signore Competello,” Mr. Faulk said. “This is Mr. William Henry, the doctor’s allievo.”
The Camorra padrone tilted his massive head back to stare down his thick, flat nose at me. He turned to Mr. Faulk without taking my offered hand.
“Where is Dottore Warthrop?” he demanded.
“The doctor wishes to convey his deepest regrets,” I answered. “He has been unexpectedly delayed.”
Francesco Competello lowered himself into the love seat next to the fire, holding the cane upright between his legs, and his companion stood behind him with his hands in his pockets, looking at nothing, observing everything. I returned to the chair across from Competello. Mr. Faulk remained by the door, hands empty and loose by his sides.
