The Jekyll Revelation

by Robert Masello

  “Okay,” she said. “I suppose he’ll turn up one day. The bad penny always does.”

  He could tell she was torn between never wanting to see the man again and making sure that he was at least alive. Old habits die hard.

  “But let me know when you—and Lucy—would like to come out to the Casa San Marino,” she said. “We’ve got a tennis court.”

  “I’m not sure we’ve got the proper attire.”

  “For you two, we’ll make an exception. Just be sure my mother doesn’t spot you.”

  She got into the car, pushing Tripod’s snout away from the steering wheel, and said, “Don’t forget to put Polysporin on that cut.”

  He touched the spot over his eye where the metal flask had hit him.

  “Or that scrape on your shoulder.”

  He hadn’t mentioned it was actually from a bullet. “You don’t want me to use some all-natural unguent?” he kidded her.

  She shrugged, pulling her seat belt over her shoulder. “Sometimes I cave in to modern medicine. Call me later?”

  “For sure.”

  And then, he leaned into her open window and kissed her. Although it wasn’t the first time, it still had the virtue of feeling that way. He could taste one of her flavored lip balms and guessed, “Strawberry?”

  “Nope,” she said, keeping her face tilted up toward his. “Try again.”

  He did, and guessed raspberry.

  “Wrong again.”

  When he’d run out of fruits, she laughed and said, “You were right the first time.” And then she waved one hand and pulled out of the lot.

  Going back inside the store and picking through the wreckage, he found one painting, upside down below the empty cash register, that had been miraculously spared. It was a waterfall, all blue and green and silvery lines, with the silhouettes of a couple, about to embrace, in a secret grotto behind it. He took it as a sign, and stuck it in the backseat of his Rover before heading out.

  Driving down the main road, the canyon still smelled like a barbecue, but the weather had changed at last. It was cool and gray outside, and the forecast had even included the possibility of light showers in the next day or two. The classic definition of too little, too late. But he’d take it. The land was so parched, and denuded of ground cover now, it needed any drop of rain it could get.

  From force of habit, he’d propped his antenna out the side window of the car. Although he’d already tried to pick up a signal from his coyotes, to no avail, he wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet. The thought that they might have been trapped by the fire was just unbearable to him; he prayed that they’d been able to make it across the main road and down the cliffs and into the ravine where the fire department had managed to hold the line.

  There wasn’t much traffic—just a few cars and pickups here and there, people coming back to assess the damage, recover what they could, or, in some of the rare cases, rejoice at the discovery that the flames had somehow bypassed their homes. As he passed La Raza, he saw that a few of the outdoor tables were occupied, one of them by the Potheads. He tooted the horn of the Land Rover and waved, and though they looked up from their meal, they didn’t wave back. He realized that they probably hadn’t had time to recognize him behind his shades, and the purple-and-gold car must have stumped them. But he was awfully glad to see that they were okay.

  Seth and Alfie, he’d heard, had been lucky, too. True, they were both in the hospital, listed in stable condition, but they’d miraculously survived that end-over-end crash through the guardrail. Couldn’t have happened to two nicer guys.

  It was only when Rafe got within a few hundred yards of his destination that he slowed down. He had hoped to get in and out of the Compound unobserved, but a red-and-white van, marked Department of Medical Examiner–Coroner, was pulling out of the driveway, and a squad car was parked by the side of the road. Was he too late? He parked behind the cruiser and got out, then reached back inside and retrieved his broad-brimmed khaki hat. For this, the more official he looked, the better.

  15 November, 1888

  The hackney coach made slow progress through the mêlée that was the London docks. A world of its own, the quayside was populated with the most disparate cast of characters imaginable, from Jamaicans to lascars, Levantines to Chinamen, butchers in blue aprons swinging pigs’ heads by the ears, clerks in black toting up bales of tobacco and barrels of wine only now disgorged from the holds of hundreds of ships, drunken sailors still finding their land legs, apprehensive emigrants sitting atop their lone sack of possessions, spooning the last scraps of meat from a tin of boiled beef or salted pork.

  And bobbing on the water, as far as the eye could see, a thicket of masts and ropes and bunting, clippers and schooners and steamships, flying flags from every corner of the earth, all come here to trade at the greatest emporium of nations ever assembled.

  On most such days as this, I’d have been transported by the spectacle and clamour, but today I had my eye out for only one thing—Henley.

  ‘Where is the man?’ Fanny said, as I glanced out the window again. ‘Did you tell the coachman he’s hard to miss, with that filthy red beard and wooden crutch?’

  Even now, when Henley was proving instrumental in our plans, she could not spare him a kind word. Perhaps that was the very reason, I thought, for her lack of charity—she was now beholden, forever, to a man she despised, and she hated him all the more for it.

  ‘We’re not even close to the Victoria docks yet,’ I said. ‘Have patience.’

  The quays were enormous, stretching out over more than six hundred acres and encompassing innumerable piers and jetties, warehouses and customs offices, taverns and tenements, granaries, and even a subterranean vault capable of holding thousands of casks of rum; these were deliberately stored there in a Stygian gloom, with no source of artificial illumination, or the accompanying risk of fire. The workers navigated among the barrels by the artful manipulation of bright tin reflectors held in their hands.

  Fanny settled back in her seat with a nervous sigh, her luggage all around her; Woggin, whose ancient bones always sought the softest spot now, lay in her lap.

  As we made our way past the older St. Katharine’s and Millwall docks, and approached the East and West India Company’s territory, I kept my eyes peeled even more closely for the newer docks named for the Queen. It was there that we were to rendezvous with Henley and board the Yankee ship, the Mercury, bound for Boston. It was the best berth we could get on such short notice, and the first ship to be leaving England for America. I had told Henley to buy passage no matter what the cost . . . and for three.

  When the coachman pulled on the reins and the carriage stopped, I heard Henley shouting, ‘That you, Stevenson?’

  ‘Is he alone?’ Fanny asked anxiously.

  He was, though I had expected no less. ‘Wait here.’

  Getting out, I greeted Henley, and we both looked about in every direction, for any sign of imminent apprehension. He pressed the necessary travel papers into my hands—‘You’ve got a first-class cabin on a third-class ship, I’m afraid’—and I assured him it made no difference to me.

  ‘It might to her ladyship.’

  ‘Not under circumstances like these.’

  ‘True.’

  He pointed to a weather-beaten boat, flying the American flag, where a string of stragglers, seaman’s bags slung over their shoulders, were already boarding. ‘There, that’s him now,’ Henley said, and I saw a figure dressed like a lowly deckhand, kerchief tied around his brow, slouching up the gangway. ‘Travelling as Samuel Smith. Steerage all the way.’

  ‘He can’t have been happy about that.’

  ‘He’s lucky to be out of it at all. I still can’t tell you the shock I had when he turned up at the “Observer.” He looked like he’d been through one of those riots over near Shadwell, where they’re roughing up the foreign workers.’

  Although I still hadn’t told Henley the true story, I thought he might have found it out a
nyway; no one had his ear to the ground in London more than Henley. Constance’s aunt had sworn out a complaint for assault and battery, and Abberline had put out a warrant for Lloyd’s arrest. Constance, fearing for her reputation if the whole tale were made public, had allowed it to rest at that.

  More resourceful than I might have expected, Lloyd had run to the offices of the “National Observer,” knowing that they remained open around the clock and that he would not be turned away. Henley—no great admirer of Lloyd’s to begin with—had, out of loyalty to me, dutifully hidden him there.

  ‘He’ll be a burden to you wherever you go, Louis. You know that, don’t you?’

  I nodded, thinking that he knew only the half of it. Had the derringer carried another bullet, I might not have been standing there at all.

  Fanny, whose patience had evaporated, was supervising the unloading of the trunks and bags that had been so hastily packed. I had given her a full accounting of our predicament in London—both Lloyd’s transgressions and the attacks upon my person from the still missing Josef—and she had agreed that an immediate departure was the safest bet all around. In her heart, I believe she was secretly relieved. This was not how she had planned to leave London, but at least she was leaving. Somewhere, she might yet have a flourishing garden.

  ‘Henley, old man,’ I said, clasping his hand, ‘I cannot thank you enough.’

  He started to reply, but for the first time in his life faltered. No joke could spring to his lips.

  Fanny had commandeered a porter and called out, ‘What ship is it?’

  ‘The Mercury,’ I said, pointing.

  ‘And what about . . . our friend?’

  ‘Already aboard,’ Henley answered.

  She put a hand to her heart to signal her relief, and even went so far as to mouth the words, ‘Bless you, sir.’ Never in my life had I imagined such a thing.

  ‘Well now,’ Henley said, ‘miracles abound today.’ Then, straightening himself up on his crutch and clearing his throat, he said, ‘You’d best be on your way, or the ship will set sail without you.’

  ‘Yes, I should be going.’

  But neither one of us moved as Fanny and the porter trundled down the dock. We both knew that this might well be the last time we saw each other. I was bound for the most remote and tropical port of call I could find—somewhere to nurse my ravaged lungs for the rest of my days, while keeping my dangerous ward under the closest supervision—and Henley, as much a fixture of London as the Tower Bridge, was highly unlikely to pay me a call there. ‘I will write and tell you where we’ve finally alighted.’

  ‘Yes, of course, do,’ he said, avoiding my eyes. ‘Perhaps I can assign you some travel pieces. But promise you won’t use the money for something frivolous—use it to pay for some fine Irish whiskey.’

  ‘Agreed.’ I turned away and followed Fanny past the sagging bowsprit of the Mercury, then up onto its deck, where I stayed for the next hour. When we raised anchor and caught the sluggish current of the Thames, I saw that Henley, perched on a keg of rum, was still keeping vigil, a cigar between his lips and the crutch across his lap. All he lacked was a parrot on his shoulder.

  My own Long John Silver.

  TOPANGA CANYON—CALIFORNIA

  Present Day

  Crossing the dry gully between the road and the Compound, Rafe prayed that he could get to the remains of the Harley without being spotted. If there was any chance of the journal surviving the fire, it would be in those metallic saddlebags on the back of the bike.

  The adobe house had been reduced to a pile of rubble. The motorcycle still lay in the dirt, a tangle of scorched and blasted metal, but the body of its owner was gone. Rafe assumed it was in the back of that coroner’s van. He was moving swiftly toward the ruined bike when he heard a noise coming from the barn—all that remained of the structure were a few upright timbers and interior walls—and then a shout.

  “Hey, who are you? This is off-limits!”

  Damn. Rafe adjusted his course and announced himself. The guy was wearing an open yellow slicker that read Fire Marshal, over street clothes, and poking at the ruins with a piece of rebar in one hand and a flashlight, even though it was broad daylight, in the other.

  After giving Rafe, and his uniform, the once-over, the marshal said, “You know who lived here?”

  “A motorcycle club,” Rafe said. “They called themselves the Spiritz. This was their hangout. I saw the coroner’s van leaving just now.”

  “Yeah, we found one of them.”

  “The guy with the bike out front.”

  “No,” the marshal said, “we found him yesterday.” He stopped and gave Rafe a look. “How’d you know about that guy?”

  Damn, Rafe thought; he shouldn’t have opened his mouth so soon. “On my way out of the canyon, I swung in here to warn them all to evacuate immediately, and the guy who owned that bike gave me some grief. Said he wasn’t going anywhere.”

  The marshal looked dubious, but said, “Well, he should have taken your advice. You know his name?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Just to be on the safe side, we came back for one more look.” He returned to poking at the wreckage and pointing his flashlight beam under the fallen timbers. “And what do you know—we found another victim. White guy, tall, stringy—can’t say much more about him than that. There wasn’t much left. Any idea who he might be?”

  A terrible thought suddenly dawned on Rafe. Now that they had found Laszlo’s body, they were also likely to find the gun—his gun, and traceable, through Land Management records, back to him—unless he found it first. Why hadn’t this occurred to him before?

  “Nope—I didn’t really know these guys by name.”

  As casually as he could, he worked his way over toward what had been the center of the barn, trying to judge where he had last seen Laszlo standing before the roof had caved in on him.

  “Careful where you step,” the marshal said. “That’s about where we found that last guy.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” Rafe said, hunching down to look under some burned furniture—the remains of what had been the bunk beds?—“just thought I could help.”

  The marshal turned and drifted off in the direction of the demolished bathroom, and Rafe took the opportunity to thoroughly reorient himself, to replay the final fight and figure out just exactly where the gun might have landed.

  “Something tells me this place was a dump even before it burned down,” the marshal called from behind a partial wall. “Am I right?”

  “Yep,” Rafe called back, not wanting to offer any more precise knowledge than that. He flipped over the spindly legs of the old Formica table, and instantly some little woodland creature scrambled for new cover. Plainly, Laszlo had lost his grip on the gun, or it would have been found when his body was. Rafe dug deeper.

  Hearing the noise, the marshal called out, “I told you, you don’t have to do that. It’s more dangerous than you think.”

  “Okay, gotcha,” Rafe called back, lifting a burned board and shifting it quietly to one side; under it, he saw a scorched mattress and splintered bedpost. Then, moving another, he spotted beneath it some smashed plates, charred pillows, and, barely visible, the dull glint of a Smith & Wesson muzzle.

  “Nothing in there, thank God,” the marshal said, coming out of the bathroom. “I guess the rest of ’em got out in time.”

  “Looks that way.”

  The marshal wiped his hands on his slicker and looked up at the sullen sky. “You think it’ll ever rain in this town again?”

  “The park service forecast says it might, later this week.”

  “Yeah,” he said, clambering over some debris and passing Rafe on his way out. “And then again, I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  Rafe quickly stuck a hand under the board, grabbed the gun, and shoved it under the back of his shirt.

  “Come on out of there,” the marshal said without turning around. “You’re gonna get hurt. Leave it to the bulldozer.”
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  “You’re right,” Rafe replied, watching him go. The gun was cold and hard and grimy against the small of his back, but he left it where it was. Lodged there, it felt like a little bit of penance.

  When he heard the squad car driving off, he returned to the burned bike in the yard and knelt down beside the rear compartments. The saddlebag latches had been twisted into curlicues, and when he pried open the one on top, he found nothing but some rags and a melted tin of chrome polish.

  Wrestling the remains of the bike onto its other side took a few minutes of hard labor, but when he was done, he was able to pop open the compartment and reach inside. What he pulled out was a molten mess, an amalgam of fried jerky strips, pills, chains, candy bars, cigarettes . . . and something else.

  The journal.

  Everything had congealed into one lump. The mottled shagreen covers of the book had been burned to a crisp, and once Rafe had managed to separate them from all the rest, he opened the book to find that the few pages left intact were entirely black. The rest were nothing but cinders, scattering the moment they were exposed to the sunlight. He watched the ashes rise up in the morning breeze and disperse like dandelion seeds into the canyon air. Even if he had ever been able to convince anyone of what he’d recovered from the bottom of the lake, he’d now have no proof of it at all. And if he tried to tell anyone the astonishing story he’d read, they’d have looked at him like he was crazy. What he held in his hands—the seared covers and a handful of dust—was all he had to show for the last words of Robert Louis Stevenson.

  PART III

  25 November, 1894

  Samoa

  Vailima.

  That is the name we have given to our plantation.

  Good Lord, who would ever have thought it possible that I, a son of Edinburgh, writer of stories and verse, scion of lighthouse engineers, should one day rule as master of a tropical paradise?

  A native Samoan word, it means ‘the place of five waters’. Waterfalls cascade from the surrounding slopes, streams and creeks abound, the jungle, green and glittering as an emerald necklace, embraces us on all sides.