by Susan Wiggs
“It’s different this time.”
“How so?”
“I can tell you that in three words. Isabel Fish-Wooten.” He counted off the syllables on his fingers. “Don’t pretend you don’t understand what I mean. I’m happy for you, Blue. I’m glad you met her.”
“Damn it, she’s a patient—”
“Who happens to occupy your wife’s bedroom.”
“That was not my choice.”
“I realize that. Lucas put her there. Surely you won’t ignore the underlying intent there.”
“She’s too old for Lucas.” And too young for me.
“Idiot. The boy wants a mother, not a mistress.”
Lengthening his strides, Blue headed across the road, dodging a horse car trundling through the intersection. He didn’t want to think about charity balls or Isabel today. Or ever.
“Where are we going?” Rory asked.
“To Mercy Heights Hospital. According to the news reports of Officer Brolin’s shooting, there were no witnesses to the event.”
“And?”
“And there’s someone I want you to meet.” Blue explained about Nathan Glasscock Skinner, who claimed to have seen the incident but also swore he hadn’t been questioned by the police. “Why do you think that is?”
“We both know how careless the police can be.”
“Even when it involves an attack on one of their own?”
Inside the hospital, the heat of the day mingled with oppressive humidity and the ever-present atmosphere of sickness. The nurses’ wimples sagged, leeched of starch by the damp air.
“You said he was a hopeless drunk.” Rory exhibited that annoying lawyerly skepticism and challenge. “Perhaps he was making up a tale.”
“Perhaps.” Blue thought of the jaundiced, half-mad man in the veterans’ ward. “But why would he do that?”
“Why does a drunk do anything?” Rory wrinkled his nose at the sharp smells that permeated the arched corridor.
In the dim, quiet ward, they encountered Leah Mundy, the young medical student from Philadelphia. True to her word, she was now working regularly at the Rescue League, proving herself to be fearless and practical as she ministered to the cast-off detritus of the city’s underworld. Today, Miss Mundy looked smaller and more schoolgirlish than ever as she sat atop a white enameled cabinet, scribbling notes. The bed Skinner had occupied was empty, stripped down to its stained, striped mattress.
When she spied Blue and Rory, she quickly dropped to her feet and smoothed her hands down her smock. She still regarded Blue with a mixture of awe and fear.
He couldn’t be bothered to allay her nervousness at the moment. He glanced at the empty bed and then back at Miss Mundy. “When?”
“Last night, or rather in the early hours of the morning. He was discovered by the orderly on duty.”
“And the cause?”
“Heart failure.”
Blue turned to Rory. “So much for questioning Skinner.” He headed for the door, sparing Miss Mundy only the briefest of nods.
“Doctor, wait,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I have a question about the patient. I noticed—that is, when they came to transport him to the morgue, I observed that, well, that his tongue was thickened and…discolored.”
A fine chill crept over Blue. “And?”
“And I observed broken vessels in the eyes.”
He caught Rory’s eye and saw the questions there. Miss Mundy looked at Blue, then Rory, then Blue again.
“Rory McKnight,” said Blue, “and even though he’s a lawyer, I can vouch for his character. You may speak freely in front of him.”
“Sir, according to my research—” she indicated her notes and her Materia Medica “—those are symptoms of asphyxiation.” She spoke very low, the word a haunting sigh in the hot, soundless room.
“Where is Skinner now?” Rory asked.
“He had no next of kin to contact, so he’s been transported to Lime Kiln Point.”
“So quickly?” asked Rory.
She swallowed delicately. “At this time of year, they tend not to linger over such things.”
“Thank you, Miss Mundy. And how is Officer Brolin today?”
“I’m afraid there’s no change, sir.”
As they left the hospital, Rory asked, “What do you make of that?”
“I can’t be sure. Either the old bastard managed to smother himself…”
“Or someone wanted him dead.”
Twenty
Lucas insisted on driving home from the waterfront, where they had gone one damp evening to retrieve a shipment of supplies. The packet was delayed due to fog, and the usual crew of stevedores had melted into the evening before it docked. Blue and Lucas had found themselves laboring alongside the few lingering dockworkers, loading crates into their carriage.
It was dark by the time they finished and Lucas took up the reins. Blue had schooled his son in driving and horsemanship, and the boy was a capable driver, even in the steep and congested streets of the city.
They exited Pacific Mail dock gate at the junction of First and Brannan Streets and Mission Bay, making their way through a heavy fog that held the meaty odor of sewage gas. Lamplighters had already come down the hill on their nightly rounds, and the streetlamps cast pools of white mist along the roadway. Blue glanced at Lucas to see him breathing through his mouth and sitting very straight on the seat as he kept control of the reins. A jolt of affection inundated Blue, a sensation so sweet he nearly forgot the miasma of the city’s filthiest district. But then the open carriage picked up speed, and instantly concern dominated Blue’s thoughts. Too often, the boy drove with a reckless edge.
“You took that last turn too fast,” Blue said. “We were all but screaming around the corner on two wheels.”
“No, I didn’t,” Lucas stated, navigating swiftly through the traffic, which thickened around the beer saloons and chop houses of the commercial district. “Didn’t you say you were in a rush to sign for the medical supplies?”
Blue couldn’t dispute it. Due to the number of patients he served, he was always running low on bandages, lancets and imported medications. He was down to his last stock of smallpox vaccine. “I was, but there’s no need to hurry now. It’s late, and we’ve long since missed supper. By the time we get home, they’ll all have gone to bed.”
“I don’t see why I had to come,” Lucas said with a smart snap of the reins. “It’s after hours anyway. We should have waited until morning.”
“A physician’s duties extend around the clock,” Blue reminded him.
“I’m not a physician.”
“But one day—”
“One day I’ll make up my own mind about my future,” Lucas said quickly, then hunched his shoulders to indicate he was concentrating on his driving. They passed alleys strewn with refuse, where shadows darted, quick as secrets. Crimps loitered in front of the Sailor’s Home, ready to pounce on the hapless greenhorns who mysteriously found themselves unable to pay their tariff. Lucas drove by a noisy saloon crammed to the curb with ne’er-do-wells and dockworkers, laughing and arguing under a sign advertising steam beer for five cents a pint. “Are you thirsty?” Lucas asked.
Blue couldn’t quite keep from smiling. “Keep driving.”
Misty globes of gaslight floated in the fog. The brick clock tower at the intersection of Geary, Kearney and Market Streets formed a black monolith that loomed over them as they passed. Pedestrians and lightly-sprung driving traps made way for the imposing Calhoun vehicle. With an air of noblesse oblige he could only have inherited from his mother, Lucas occupied the middle of the road until a large cartload of ice blocks forced him to give way.
Blue literally bit his tongue to keep from saying something critical. It never helped, even when he was right. If it was raining straight down on his head, Lucas would argue that it was dry, and if Blue pointed out that it was daylight, Lucas would insist it was dark. In the matter of Lucas’s future,
he knew his own aspirations didn’t necessarily match those of his son. He wanted Lucas to study medicine and made no secret of that fact. The lad was uncommonly bright, and when he didn’t think his father was watching, tended to show compassion to others.
Except while driving. Setting his jaw, Blue braced one arm against the upholstered side of the carriage and hoped that when they toppled over, they would not take any pedestrians with them. The damp, brick-paved streets raced past as Lucas aimed the rig uphill, away from the swamp-like atmosphere of the waterfront.
“I wish you wouldn’t drive so fast,” Blue said, unable to hold his tongue any longer. Then, catching the look on his son’s face, he added, “You’ve a fine hand with the horses.”
Even in San Francisco, where gorgeous rigs and matched teams were a common sight, passersby stared in admiration at the glossy carriage and nimble horses. Impressing people had never been all that important to Blue, but appearances had always mattered greatly to Sancha. Perhaps that was where Lucas got his self-consciousness.
Lucas applied the buggy whip lightly to urge the team up Canby Hill.
Slow down, Blue wanted to say. What’s your hurry?
He used to be in a hurry when he was young. He’d hurried off to war, only to see horrors that never left. He’d hurried to marry, only to lose his young wife to an act of brutality that proved the world made no sense. Life was a string of tragedies. Why rush from one to the next?
“Regardless of your future profession,” he said, “I’ve given a great deal of thought to your education. I’ve sent a letter to my colleagues on the board of Milton.”
“I’m not going to Milton.”
“Not today, at any rate.” Blue tried to keep the annoyance from his voice.
“Not ever,” said Lucas. “Sir.”
“Why the devil not? There are young men who yearn for such an opportunity. It’s a first-rate institution, it’s close to home—”
“It’s not my dream.”
“Your dream.”
“Yes, sir. My dream.”
“You’re nearly grown. You can’t be chasing dreams.”
Lucas gave a bark of laughter. “I’m nearly grown. This is the perfect time for dreaming.”
Gathering patience, Blue said, “So. What do you dream of?”
He hesitated, then said, “Not Milton College.”
Blue forced himself to say no more, because he knew where this type of conversation always went. They would wind up quarreling, then armoring themselves in angry silence. In this now-familiar argument, both of them lost. He didn’t quite know what to do about it. Day by day, Lucas was slipping away from him. The harder he tried to hold the boy in check, the harder Lucas strained to be free.
Blue understood that his son was destined to make a life of his own. He wanted that for him. But letting him go felt like a devastating loss. He wondered if other fathers experienced this and what they did about it.
“Your grandparents have offered you a berth on their cruise,” he reminded Lucas.
“Several times,” Lucas said. “They made you the same offer.”
“Several times.” Blue had no trouble declining the invitation. He wondered why people like Isabel constantly craved the change and upheaval of travel. She claimed she was seeking adventure, but sometimes, when secrets shadowed her eyes, he suspected she was hurrying away from something.
“You never leave the city,” Lucas said. “Why not?”
Blue was surprised; his son had never asked such a thing before. “I’m needed here. My life and work are here.”
“And they’ll still be waiting here if you take a holiday.”
Blue waved away the notion. “I’ve seen enough of the world.”
“I haven’t.”
“Then perhaps you should join them.”
“Sailing around the world with Grandpa, Grandmama, my aunt and uncle?” Lucas shook his head. “No, thank you.”
Blue wanted to feel gratified, but he knew better. Lucas wanted to stay where his friends were, even though those very same friends were the ones who landed him in trouble, time and time again. He was probably thinking of June Li, too, though he would never say so to his father. Their friendship was showing signs of blossoming into romance, a situation that would eventually break both their hearts. Not for the first time, Blue wished with painful intensity that Sancha was more than a memory. These were matters one discussed with a wife. Women had a way of understanding such things.
Isabel Fish-Wooten was hardly a motherly type, yet she had developed an easy rapport with Lucas. Did he confess his dreams to her? Blue wondered.
Halfway up the hill, they emerged from the thick mist of fog into an area of gaslit residential streets, boxy wooden houses and blocky mansions surrounded by sloping grounds. Lucas steered the team to the service alley. Efrena must have heard them arrive, for she waited with a glowing lamp. Blue shooed her off to bed and instructed Lucas to take charge of the team.
While Blue unloaded the shipment, Lucas pointed out that one of the horses was cowhocked in its hind legs and needed attention from the farrier. Like all Calhouns, Lucas was good with horses. It was something in their blood and bone, perhaps. He himself used to ride like the wind, far beyond the reaches of Cielito, just for the sheer pleasure of the speed. But that was long ago. He could scarcely remember the person he’d been when he was Lucas’s age. Had he defied his father? Made mischief just to prove his independence? Argued with his parents? He honestly could not remember.
They entered the house through the back. The kitchen was dark and spotlessly clean, the way Mrs. Li left it at the end of each day. Lucas helped himself to a jar of sugared peaches and half a loaf of bread, as if he had not just consumed a pound of boiled peanuts at the waterfront only an hour before. The front hall and parlor lay in darkness as well. Blue turned up the gas jets to light the wide, curving staircase. Its ornamental rail threw a giant skeleton of shadow across the opposite wall. The woodwork gleamed with a polishing of beeswax, diligently applied by Bernadette.
“I’d best check on Miss Fish-Wooten,” said Blue. “Then I’ll be in my study.”
His mouth stuffed with bread, Lucas nodded. To Blue’s surprise, he followed him up the stairs. When Lucas was small, he used to follow his father everywhere, like a tiny apparition. Now he rarely voluntarily went anywhere with Blue. But like everyone else who encountered Isabel Fish-Wooten, Lucas had fallen under her spell.
As he made his way to her room, Blue felt annoyed at himself. When had he begun thinking of it as her room? Nothing in this house belonged to her. She was a temporary wayfarer, nothing more.
No light leaked from around the door, which was unusual. She had a voracious appetite for reading, as though she wanted to devour every book in the world. Often she stayed awake late into the night, poring over borrowed volumes of poetry and recipes and travelogues. She showed no particular preference. She read novels and memoirs and medical tracts with equal interest, sometimes as many as two per day.
Blue tapped at the door, then frowned when he heard no answer, no rustle of bedclothes as she stirred in her sleep. The idea of seeing her asleep in bed was deeply—disturbingly—appealing to him. After a moment he pushed the door open and turned up the wall sconces by the door.
Behind him, Lucas gulped down the mouthful of food he was chewing and stated the obvious. “She’s gone.”
Blue surveyed the room, which was not simply vacant but which held a curious air of being undisturbed. There was no trace of her left here, no hint that she had ever inhabited these quarters. The bed was made, the carpet swept, the drapes drawn and hanging motionless, as though made of stone. It was hard to imagine that only a few hours earlier, she had filled the room with her laughter and blithe talk, the aroma of raspberries as she ate them from a bowl. This room was as empty as it had been after Sancha died.
He felt something unexpected and not altogether pleasant—regret. Quickly shaking it off, he turned to Lucas. “Yes. Well, she was fe
eling better and no doubt eager to be on her way.”
To his surprise, fury flared in Lucas’s dark eyes. “That’s not true, and you know it. She didn’t want to leave. She was happy here.”
“She was a stranger. How would we know whether she was happy or not?”
“You drove her away,” Lucas said. “You always ruin everything.”
“Don’t be absurd. She was a patient. Clearly she felt well enough to be up and about and on her way. That is the entire goal of the healing art, is it not?”
“You wanted her gone,” he said, dismissing Blue’s rationale with an angry swipe of his hand. “You hated having her in my mother’s room. You hated it that she was alive while my mother—” He stopped, but Blue heard the rest of it anyway. With no further explanation, Lucas stormed away, stomping up to his third-floor chamber and slamming the door.
Blue stood alone in the empty room. Sancha’s room. But he couldn’t picture Sancha here anymore. Instead, he saw Isabel everywhere—pale and slight as she lay against a bank of white pillows, watching her opponent across the gaming table with a gamin look in her eye, unexpectedly studious as she sat reading, oddly vulnerable as she stood before the tall oval mirror, studying her reflection, adjusting the hair combs he had given her.
In the short time she’d been here, Isabel had made this room her own. Now she was gone, and he told himself he ought to be relieved. She was like any other patient, giving him a glimpse of her life but never the whole picture, and then moving on entirely when she had no further need of him. That was the nature of his profession.
Yet even as he labored to let go of her, he kept thinking about where she might go, whom she might meet. She was secretive about herself and her past, but any woman who carried two guns was likely headed for trouble.
And then there was the mysterious matter of Nathan Skinner. Perhaps he’d drunk himself to death, or perhaps he’d died because he saw something he shouldn’t have on the night of the shooting.
The thought jolted Blue into action. He didn’t walk swiftly back to the carriage house. He ran.
