American Gothic

by Michael Romkey

  But he could not go away without Lady Fairweather.

  And Peregrine—there was something about Nathaniel Peregrine that Dr. Lavalle could not quite make himself remember.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Lavalle sat straight up, his eyes bulging.

  “Just a moment.”

  He threw the needle into his center desk drawer and slapped at his right sleeve, clawing at the cotton fabric rolled to above his elbow.

  “Excusez-moi, Doctor.” It was Magalie Jeanty. She gave Lavalle a curious look. It was because he was sitting in his shirtsleeves, he guessed. “The prefect of police has returned.”

  Lavalle stood as the smiling Toussaint came in past the nurse, but was overcome by the rush of blood to his head. He leaned forward, supporting himself against the desk, and extended his hand.

  “You are looking pale, Doctor,” Toussaint said, lowering his great bulk into one of the two chairs in front of the desk. “I hope you are not feeling ill.”

  “I didn’t get much sleep. What did you find along the road?” Lavalle asked.

  “I made a thorough search. We found nothing, Doctor. No blood, no body.”

  “I didn’t think there would be a body.” Lavalle noticed he had been tapping his right foot and compelled himself to stop. “I thought I may have wounded him.”

  “You should do some target shooting, Doctor.”

  “Ensuring the local safety is your parish, not mine.”

  Toussaint leaned back in the chair until its groans could be heard over his booming laugh. “Is there something you are not telling me, Doctor?”

  “Of course not.” Lavalle noticed the red stain on the inside of his right elbow. He crossed his arms to hide it from the policeman.

  “Your housekeeper said she found you on the floor of your study this morning. She said you were weak and feverish and disoriented.”

  “I have a touch of malaria that bothers me from time to time,” Lavalle said. “It’s been giving me a bit of a go lately, I’m afraid. To be perfectly frank, I collapsed from nervous exhaustion in my study. The stress of running the hospital, these murders, the incident on the road, the malaria—I fainted dead away.”

  The policeman was listening carefully to him, his smile taking nothing away from the expression of cold appraisal in his cunning eyes.

  “Then you were not attacked in your study?”

  “What?”

  “You are jumpy today, Doctor.”

  “My nerves are frayed.” Lavalle noticed he was tapping his foot again. “Why would you think I was attacked in my study?”

  “Your housekeeper heard you cry out about an intruder, but she was too frightened to come out of her room while it was dark.”

  “That is absurd.” Lavalle frantically searched his mind. Had he been attacked? He knew he most certainly hadn’t, yet there was a germ of uncertainty about it. He couldn’t remember anything between pouring himself a brandy and being woken up on the floor.

  Toussaint was watching him, waiting.

  “The only possible explanation is that I cried out in my sleep.”

  “People do not always want to tell the police everything,” Toussaint said. “That is perfectly understandable.”

  “I’m telling you everything.”

  “Non, Doctor. You have not been honest with me.”

  The cocaine saved Lavalle from the sinking feeling those words should have brought. “Oh?” he said finally.

  “You were not honest with me about the reason you left Paris.”

  Lavalle had hoped this moment would never come, but now that it had, it was almost a relief.

  “No one comes to Cap Misère without a very good reason, Doctor, and I knew you had to have yours.”

  “It is beautiful country,” Lavalle said. “Eternal summer, the sea, the flowers. The only things the island lacks are culture and money.”

  “One thing we do not lack, Doctor, is fugitives,” Toussaint said.

  “There are no other fugitives like me on the island.”

  “No, indeed not, Doctor. You are in a class by yourself: white, wealthy, an eminent physician. You are the most distinguished murderer we have as a guest.”

  Lavalle felt as if he were crashing inward on himself. The drug was wearing off. It wasn’t just that, of course, but the discovery—and the guilt.

  “I am curious,” the policeman said. “You are a highly intelligent man, Dr. Lavalle. Why did you choose to use your real name? You could have made it more difficult for me to discover your crime.”

  Lavalle shrugged.

  “I think I can guess,” Toussaint said. “You thought Cap Misère was too far away for anyone to know. And you were nearly right. Unfortunately for you, it was necessary for me to file a report on you to the capital after the incident with the teamster. The man was dead, of course, but the formalities must be observed. Reports are a matter of great importance to the government, though I doubt anyone ever reads them. It seems a circular printed on your behalf had belatedly arrived at La Sûreté headquarters. Sooner or later these inquiries even get to places like Haiti.”

  “I refuse to pretend to be someone I am not simply because of…” Lavalle had to search for the words. “Simply because of an unfortunate entanglement. Leaving France was merely expedient, but pretending to be someone I am not would be dishonorable.”

  “You are a proud man, Doctor. And you know what we are told about pride.”

  Lavalle’s chin came up. “Of course I am proud. I am a doctor and a scientist. I have an obligation to use my training to benefit society. This is all the more so because of what happened during that unfortunate incident. What good could I do society in prison?”

  The smiling policeman held up his hands.

  “Easy, Doctor. I quite understand. We are fortunate to have a man like you in Cap Misère to alleviate the suffering of the little ones. What does it matter to me if some unpleasantness occurred on the other side of the sea? I have never been to Paris, of course, but I imagine it is much like Port-au-Prince. Even the biggest scandals become passé after a few months. Who cares what happened two or three years ago? What purpose would it serve to send you to a prison cell in France, or even to the guillotine? And when would we ever get another physician to come to Cap Misère? I am a realistic man, Doctor. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “I want nothing more than to devote myself to the public welfare,” Lavalle said with all the humility he could muster.

  “Concerning these strange attacks that have the people frightened, Doctor: I believe you narrowly escaped whatever is responsible for these killings last night.”

  Lavalle nodded, perfectly happy to move on to a different subject.

  “I need to add additional patrols. The public safety is at stake.”

  “I agree.”

  Toussaint’s smile grew brighter. “Expanding patrols to keep the town safe will require hiring more constables. Unfortunately, I do not have the funds at my disposal to defer such an expense. Therefore, I have decided to assess you a special police protection tax.”

  Lavalle and Toussaint looked at each other a long moment, the doctor’s expression thoughtful, the policeman continuing to grin.

  “I see your point perfectly,” Lavalle said equably. “I am glad to help in this time of public emergency. How much do you need?”

  Lavalle cringed inwardly at the figure, enough to hire a platoon of policemen. He opened the center drawer to his desk, pushed aside the syringe, and took out a book of checks.

  “You are a wealthy man, Doctor.”

  Lavalle did not reply except to tear out the check and offer it to the smiling policeman.

  22

  Blood Work

  LAVALLE PREPARED THE first slide for study, extracting blood from the vial, adding dye to make the cell structure easier to see under the microscope.

  A second injection of cocaine had filled the doctor with compulsive energy, and it was far better to lose himself in productiv
e work than to obsess over Toussaint’s blackmail, Helen and Peregrine, and the faceless killer.

  Lavalle had very little hope that a study of the province’s blood supply would provide insight into the recent murders, but the crimes might serve a greater purpose. The superstitious peasants would never agree to cooperate in a study that required them to provide blood samples, but now Lavalle had an excuse to enlist Toussaint to ensure cooperation for the general collection. The policeman was in his employ—which was one way to look at the situation—so Lavalle might as well put him to good use. The data would advance his research into the sickle-cell syndrome. Comprehensive data might even lead to an epidemiological breakthrough.

  The doctor’s hands were a little shaky from the cocaine injections, so he got the bottle of rum out of his drawer and filled a teacup with liquor. He never drank while he was working, but what did it matter anymore? It was impossible to maintain civilized standards in the jungle. He had been foolish to try.

  Lavalle opened the louvers, squinting against the blinding tropical sunlight flooding into the laboratory. He clipped on the first slide and angled the microscope toward the light, adjusting the mirror to reflect light up through the bottom of the slide and illuminate the blood study. He bent over the instrument with one eye closed, using his thumb and forefinger to adjust the focus.

  He saw the bad news immediately.

  The doctor turned away from the microscope, shaking his head. He carried the teacup of rum over to the window and looked out through the slats. Across the street, two men were butchering a hog hung by its hind legs from a front porch. A pack of wild dogs watched from the dusty street, waiting for a chance make off with a bit of offal.

  Medical research was a paradox, Lavalle thought. (His mind was not usually given to such musings, but the cocaine sent ideas tumbling through him, like a landslide of boulders falling down the hill, each one knocking others free as it fell.) Research could turn up things that would save a person’s life, he thought. He took a sip of rum. But research could also condemn a man to death.

  Lavalle went back and took another look through the microscope. He made a notation in his lab book, his handwriting more hurried and crabbed than usual, this also from the drug. He had more than a little familiarity with acute myeloid leukemia. Indeed, it was one of his special areas of expertise. He had been Paris’s greatest expert in the disease. The rich, the noble, the famous—they all sought him out when they were diagnosed with the disease. Not that there had been much Lavalle could do for them, of course, but people always wanted the finest physician money could buy when the case seemed hopeless.

  Poor Peregrine. He had acute myeloid leukemia, his time left to live measured in months, maybe weeks.

  And when he was dead, and Dr. Lavelle had won back Lady Fairweather’s heart—she had become unaccountably smitten with the American—they would leave Haiti together, the two of them, and go somewhere new. Lavalle would have to be more careful the next time, if for no other reason than to keep Helen from discovering he was a fugitive.

  Lavalle eyed the hypodermic needle but elected to pour himself another rum instead. That was the way it was with him and cocaine. Once he dipped into it, he always wanted more.

  The vial containing Lady Fairweather’s blood was unopened on the lab table, neatly corked, marked with the tag he had attached to it the night before.

  “Sweet Helen,” the doctor said. He picked up the tube and began to bring it to his lips. He turned the vial toward him as he was about to deliver his kiss. It was then that he realized the mistake. In his cocaine-addled state of mind, he had mishandled the two vials in preparing the first slide. The vial he held in his hand was not filled with Helen’s blood but Peregrine’s.

  It was not Peregrine who was dying, but the beloved Helen.

  23

  Les Invalides

  “I WILL SAY a prayer for you, Lady Fairweather.”

  Lavalle winced inwardly at his nurse. Magalie Jeanty’s convent upbringing had permanently warped her sensibilities.

  “I’ll give you some privacy,” Lavalle said, snapping shut his doctor’s bag. He left Helen’s maid to help her pull the dress back over the modest chemise she’d worn during the examination.

  Lavalle went out onto the porch, dropped the bag on a table, and let his bones fall back into a rattan chair. He felt bad for Helen, and he felt bad for himself, since everything had gone completely wrong for him over the past few days. But mainly Lavalle felt bad because he had been up all night, indulging in his vice. A servant brought a cool glass of mint tea. Lavalle took a packet from his vest pocket and with shaking hands sprinkled cocaine into the glass. The mint in the bitter drink cut through the dry, pasty taste in his mouth, which instantly went numb.

  “Just what the doctor ordered,” Lavalle said out loud, suddenly rejuvenated.

  The gardens at Fairweather House were as magnificent as ever. It was late afternoon, and the landscape was filled with slanting golden light. It was impossible to imagine how Lady Fairweather managed it. Helen was notoriously easy on her staff. She’d never had a servant flogged, and Lavalle had never so much as heard her raise her voice with the help. Workers in Haiti typically performed only up to the standard their masters enforced. One needed to look no farther than Peregrine’s property to see the lack of work ethic on the island. That plantation had been kept in good condition only through the famously brutal energies of the previous owners and their hirelings. Unfortunately, the American had proven unequal to the task of keeping his people in line. Peregrine’s lands and house grew visibly more decrepit and wild each time the doctor visited.

  Lavalle looked up at the sound of footsteps. Helen was so lovely that for a moment he actually forgot. The faint shimmer of perspiration at the edge of her hair brought the truth crashing back down on him with a force that not even the cocaine could relieve. He thought of the night at Peregrine’s, when he had marveled at her glow, not recognizing death in its disguise.

  “I am going to die.”

  Lavalle could not bring himself to say it, so she had said it for him.

  “I think I’ve known for several weeks,” she said, sitting across from him. “I don’t have any strength, and I bruise easily. I wondered what you would find when you looked at my blood in your microscope.”

  “My dear Helen, I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am.”

  She gave him a crisp nod. “What is it, then?”

  “Excuse me,” the doctor said, blinking rapidly. “This is difficult for me.”

  “I know how you feel, Michael. About me—about us.”

  Lavalle nodded, unable to speak.

  “It is all right, darling. I am at peace. This is the Lord’s will.”

  “How can you say such a thing?”

  “Because I know it in my heart and soul.”

  “I wish I had your faith.”

  “You sound so bitter when you say that.”

  “I am bitter. I love you, Helen. And now that I’ve said it, I have nothing to look forward to but losing you.”

  “You must not despair, Michael. Maybe part of this is about helping you find your faith.”

  “Helen, please.”

  “If you can do nothing else for me, Michael, at least wish you had faith. All you need to do is wish for faith. If you can do that much, God will take care of the rest.”

  “God wouldn’t want me. I’ve done things. The other night you said I was a saint, but I’m a deeply flawed man.”

  “As are all men and women. That’s all the more reason for you to learn that God loves you and forgives you for your sins.”

  Lavalle considered it. Did he even have it in him somewhere to wish for such a thing, to let the trials and inevitable tragedies of life weaken him to the point that he surrendered the scientific rationality that was the basis for his entire life?

  “I will try,” he said in soft voice. Lavalle didn’t know whether she could tell he was lying, but she leaned over and kissed his forehe
ad, so perhaps he was convincing enough.

  “As to my illness…”

  Lavalle told Lady Fairweather about the leukemia and the prognosis, which was hopeless. She listened calmly and asked several excellent questions, nodding at the answers, her good mind able to easily grasp the medical concepts Lavalle outlined.

  In the course of his professional career, Lavalle had told many people they were dying, but none had heard the news with such calm and peaceful acceptance. Lady Fairweather’s inner strength was nothing short of amazing. If her fortitude flowed from faith, then even he would have to admit religion served a purpose.

  “So there is no known treatment, no hope of recovery.”

  “Nothing short of a miracle, I’m afraid,” Lavalle said, instantly regretting the words.

  “Then I shall pray for a miracle but remain obedient to God’s will. Have you told Nathaniel?”

  “What?” The question caught Lavalle completely off balance. “No, of course not. I would never discuss your case with him without your permission.”

  “What would you say if I told you Nathaniel guessed that I was sick? We talked about it the other night after you left.”

  Lavalle felt a stab of jealousy. “He’s a perceptive man, but I don’t know how he could have guessed.”

  “He suffers from a similar condition himself.”

  “He said that? How could he know?”

  “He did not explain that to me.”

  “How very odd.” Maybe Peregrine had been afflicted by his own peculiar blood condition for longer than Lavelle had guessed. Judging from the composition of the American’s blood, Lavelle was amazed that Peregrine had been able to sail his yacht to Haiti, let alone carry on the appearances of a normal life, considering that he most certainly had a fatal blood disease, though one heretofore unclassified in any of the medical books.

  “Since he told you of it himself, there can be no harm in my confirming as much.”