Applewood (Book 2): Fledge

by Myers, Brendan P.

  Though his own family line was not so deeply rooted and had fallen off the radar for the last hundred years or so, from his standing position in the rear of the ballroom, Arthur was surprised to find himself moved by her speech. Even more, he was moved by the secret knowledge that it was all a façade. He wondered if he and Mrs. Stetson were the only ones in the room to know that the Stetson bloodline was already over.

  The applause went on for a while afterward, during which Arthur left the ballroom. He went through the lobby and down a narrow hallway to a side door he knew she would be ushered through after her speech. He flashed FBI credentials to the man monitoring the door and got no trouble. A few minutes later, the applause was still going on when the door opened and Mrs. Stetson walked through. She was accompanied by a hulking bear of a crewcut man who had his arm interlocked in hers. The two walked down the hallway toward a side exit where a car awaited. Arthur followed from behind.

  Halfway to the door, he said, “Mrs. Stetson? I wonder if I might have a moment.”

  The two stopped and turned. Arthur moved closer and flashed his credentials. The bear didn’t like it and wasn’t afraid to let it show. Mrs. Stetson seemed no more receptive to the idea. She smiled politely anyway and squinted while reading his proffered I.D.

  “I’m sorry Mr. . . . Arthur, is it?” she asked, her voice a lilting Southern twang. “As you can imagine, I am on a very tight schedule today and further, I don’t know who you are. If you contact my appointment secretary, I’m sure we can find some time to fit you in.”

  Her soft voice and charming accent was as beguiling up close as it was on TV. She grabbed the huge man’s arm again and turned to walk away.

  “It’s a matter of some delicacy,” Arthur insisted. When they kept walking, he pulled out his trump card. “It’s about your son.”

  The two stopped again. Arthur saw what might have been stiffness run through the back of her lovely blue dress.

  Man bear let go of her arm. He turned and began walking toward Arthur, who was shrinking back from the man’s approach when he heard her speak.

  “It’s all right, Frank,” she said coolly. “I can spare a moment.”

  Frank looked disappointed to be called off. He veered off at the last instant and sent a sneer Arthur’s way.

  Arthur brushed past him and walked over to Mrs. Stetson, glancing around for a more private and comfortable space. Seeing a small settee halfway down a hallway to the right, he motioned her to it, leaving the hulk out of earshot. When they were both seated, Arthur began to speak.

  “I suppose in the interest of full disclosure, I should begin by telling you I’m not an F.B.I. agent,” he said, “although I am an agent of the U.S. Government. I’m here on a very delicate matter that I think only you can assist me with.”

  Looking into her puzzled stare, he saw that the lines he had noticed beneath her eyes on television were not an illusion. He noticed too the way she was seated — legs close together, white gloved hands placed daintily upon her lap — revealed generations of fine breeding. But still, he saw something distant about her blue eyes, and wondered again whether she was drugged. Whatever it was, her silence lingered far too long for Arthur’s comfort before she began to speak.

  “What is it you want to know, Mr. Arthur?” she asked finally. “What can I help you with?”

  Though her tone was all charm, Arthur sensed something else beneath it, a vacancy of some sort, as if the lights were on but nobody was home. At a loss to understand it, he realized then this might have been a very bad idea indeed. Still, the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  “I know your son is dead, Mrs. Stetson.”

  It came out more harshly than he intended, but was there any other way to say those words?

  He watched her shrink away as if slapped. Her jaw dropped. The veins in her forehead began dancing a jig. Her indignation was further revealed in the color of her cheeks. Arthur braced himself for what he thought would be an inevitable slap. He was ashamed to think he might even deserve it. But her color slowly returned to normal. A gentle smile appeared on her face.

  “Why, you couldn’t be more wrong, Mr. Arthur,” she said, “and I have no idea where you got that crazy notion. My son is alive and well and at home this very moment. Now, if you will excuse me.”

  Arthur was in too deep now to let it go.

  “Mrs. Stetson, please,” he said in a firm but kind tone. “I know all about your son, I know what happened at Andover. I know about . . . the other stuff too. Now, if your husband is putting you up to this, then maybe I can be of some assist—”

  “You just leave mah husband out of this!” she said angrily, her Southern inflection growing deeper. “Mah husband does not deserve to be slandered in this fashion. Do you hear me, Mr. Arthur? You just leave mah husband out of this.”

  Arthur had nowhere to go after that. This had been a bad idea. A very bad idea. He watched in respectful silence as she calmed herself and put herself together again. She had returned to her calm and reasonable self by the time she stood up a minute later.

  What she said next turned Arthur’s world upside down.

  “Would you like to see him, Mr. Arthur?” she asked. “He so likes to have visitors.”

  Goosebumps crawled up Arthur’s skin to have the mystery deepen like this, but he answered the question the only way he knew how.

  “Yes. I’d like that Mrs. Stetson,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”

  2

  Julian was nowhere to be found the next evening. Dugan went into the second floor library to see a new stack of books prepared for him, but he was in no mood for study. He wandered the hallways of the seemingly empty house, poking his head into rooms here and there, some of which he’d never been in. One room he entered was dedicated entirely to exquisite examples of scrimshaw art displayed behind glass cases. Another was filled with fossilized examples of extinct plants and animals. Every object in both rooms was displayed with the date and location of its discovery or acquisition.

  While in a room filled with strange tools of all shapes and kinds, it occurred to him that Julian used the house mostly as a place to keep his things. But then, he supposed, when you lived as long as Julian had, collecting things was to be expected. Dugan began wondering just what it was that he would collect.

  Leaving that room, he made his way downstairs to the main lobby, where he grabbed a coat from the side closet and walked outside into the December night. The mountain air was brisk. A layer of new snow had fallen upon the ground while he slept. Taken aback as always by the stunning view of the city below reflected in the bright moonlight, he couldn’t imagine himself ever getting used to it. It still amazed him to think that within view of his own two small eyes at least half a million people were going about their business. He made a mental note to ask Julian why he had chosen Colorado Springs, but the sheer beauty of the place made that perhaps the dumbest question of all.

  He wandered into the gardens, where only the heartiest of plants had not gone to sleep for the winter. Brushing some snow off a bench, he sat down to think.

  Earlier in the evening, he’d had another vision. This time, it was the half-remembered face of a redheaded boy on a skateboard. Beside him was another, larger kid on a bicycle. Fat and round, he was twice the size of the other boy. But in his vision, Dugan knew somehow that the two were waiting for him. It was just before dawn. He was grateful to them for some reason. Just as they both smiled to see him, the vision evaporated. Dugan was now more certain than ever that these faces he kept seeing were people from somewhere deep in his own past, a past that Julian said he would recall only after he . . .

  He didn’t even want to think about it.

  On the other hand, what was death, anyway? What was there to be afraid of? How bad could it be?

  Was it worse than having no memory of who you were? Worse than not remembering your own past? What could possibly be worse than what he had already gone through? His insid
es had ripped away and left his body. He was no stranger to hunger and thirst. He’d been chased halfway across the country, only to see people he cared about captured or killed. He had been banished from the only family he had ever known, his friends among the carnival. The only family he could remember anyway. He had even killed a man. Was there anything worse than that? He realized at that moment he had already made up his mind.

  The next evening, Julian came into the library. Dugan had his nose buried in Huckleberry Finn but was just reading the same sentence over and over again. He supposed that someone his age should have a deeper understanding of Huck, but it was Jim who Dugan empathized with.

  Hearing him enter, Dugan looked up and asked Julian if he could have a word with him. “I’ve come to a decision,” he said after Julian had taken a seat.

  “I can see that, lad,” Julian answered. “It’s written all over your face.”

  “So how do we do it?” Dugan asked. “And the sooner the better, because I can’t . . . it’s just . . . I can’t live this way anymore.”

  “What way is that, boy?” Julian asked.

  Dugan thought a moment before responding.

  “Not knowing who I am. Remembering the faces of people but not knowing who they are.” He looked Julian in the eye. “Not being able to tell my own story. I can’t live this way anymore.”

  Julian shook his head and expelled some air before speaking.

  “It’s just that . . . well, in your case . . . it’s not easy. I’ve not known anyone like you before. I do remember your mentioning once that your uncle believed science might have an answer. While I personally have no interest in that except perhaps an academic one — having long ago reconciled myself to what I am — he may indeed be right.” Julian looked straight at him when adding, “There’s no going back after that, boy. I just wonder if . . . well if it might not be best if you—”

  “No,” Dugan answered. He returned Julian’s stare. “I’ve made up my mind. Now how do we do this and when?”

  Julian smiled. “The lawyer in me wants to draw up some papers, but I will just ask you one more time. You understand there is no going back? Do you understand the consequences?”

  Dugan answered with just one word.

  “When?”

  Julian sighed deeply before he got up and walked slowly toward the door.

  “When!” Dugan demanded, slapping his hand on the fine mahogany table.

  Julian stopped. He kept his back to Dugan when he replied.

  “No man ever knows the date and time of his own death, my impetuous friend. Like everyone who has ever lived, you’re just going to have to keep wondering about that for a little while longer.”

  3

  Mrs. Stetson did not invite Arthur to ride in her limousine back to the house, but that was okay with him. The further away he was from her mute bodyguard, the better. He followed behind the limo a safe distance in his own rental for the twenty-minute drive through the city and into the elm-lined neighborhood where “Fair Oaks” was located. The two cars drove up a sweeping driveway and stopped in front of the pillared entryway.

  The Stetson home was a classic example of ante-bellum architecture that had somehow survived the fall of Richmond. Jefferson Davis himself was once a neighbor. Man Bear helped the lady out of the vehicle, sparing a moment to send a sneer Arthur’s way. For some reason, Mrs. Stetson’s mood had changed somewhere along the way. She practically skipped over to Arthur, taking his arm in hers to walk him up the porch.

  “Robbie is going to be so excited to have a visitor,” she said. “Ah’m afraid it’s just me and the doctors and the therapists who spend the most time with him.”

  The two walked through the front doors into a marbled entryway. Portraits of past generations lined the walls. A sweeping blue carpeted staircase lay ahead.

  “I would offer to take your coat, Mr. Arthur, but I daresay you’re going to want to keep it on. Is that all right?”

  Arthur turned and saw her sweet smile. He nodded.

  “The doctors need to keep his room cool for medical reasons, I’m told, and also bear in mind that Robbie is not . . . looking his best since the accident. But Bill has assured us we have the finest doctors in the land tending to his care.”

  Arthur thought a moment. Bill? Ah, yes. The new DCI.

  “How did you come to know Bill?” he asked as they walked up the stairs. She giggled and playfully slapped his arm.

  “Mah husband was the state coordinator for the president’s campaign, silly. Didn’t you know? Why the president himself has been in this very house. Course, he wasn’t president yet. But we shared a lovely afternoon, just the two of us, drinking tea beneath the cool shade of the magnolia tree beside the house. And what a charmin’ man he is! I tell you, we laughed and laughed. He even told some old Hollywood stories.”

  The two turned left at the top of the stairs and walked down a hallway, where Arthur began to notice an odor of some sort hung in the air, a medicinal smell. Underneath that was a musty aroma that reminded him of socks worn too long. He began to hear the rumbling of large machines then felt their vibrations beneath his feet.

  Halfway down the hall, Mrs. Stetson stopped in front of a closed door and turned to him.

  “Now please, Mr. Arthur, remember he has been awfully sick. But he so likes to have visitors.” She turned the handle and ushered him in. “You may want to button that top button!” she laughed as a blast of frigid air greeted them. “Quickly now,” she said.

  Arthur stepped into the room. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. He knew he would never adjust to the cold. Looking around for the source of the noise, he saw two industrial air conditioning units had been installed along the back wall. He turned his head to the right and saw a hospital issue bed jutting out from the wall.

  Machines large and small lined both sides of the bed, blinking and beeping away. The two large canisters tucked into a far corner he assumed were filled with oxygen. Arthur walked slowly toward the foot of the bed and saw the boy for the first time. He watched the mother move beside him and take her son’s hand in hers.

  “Robbie? I’d like you to meet Mr. Arthur.” She turned to look at Arthur and smiled. “Mr. Arthur? This is our son, Robert.”

  Despite the frigid cold, beads of sweat broke out upon Arthur’s brow. He felt his knees begin to buckle. While reaching for the side of the bed for support, Arthur realized that the roommate had been right.

  They’d shaved his head and attached electrodes to the shorn skull. Arthur couldn’t help but notice the machine they were attached to wasn’t turned on anymore. Why bother?

  The greenish blue skin of the boy’s face had already begun to buckle into the hollows of his cheeks. Capillaries beneath his eyes had exploded, leaving the skin beneath black. Looking lower, he noted with horror that the boy’s mouth had fallen open, revealing his blackened tongue. His mother saw it too, because a moment later he watched her reach over and push it closed.

  “He does that,” she said with embarrassment.

  It was an abomination. Arthur was no doctor, but the boy was clearly dead. Yet machines on either side kept the blood pumping. An IV inserted into his arm pumped fresh blood in. Another machine seemed to take the blood out via a tube coming from his leg. A plastic tube inserted into his trachea kept the air flowing noisily in and out, in and out. At the foot of the bed was a plastic bag filled with a brackish fluid that Arthur didn’t even want to think about.

  “There, there, Robbie,” she said soothingly, stroking the boy’s waxen skull. “We’re gonna make you all bettah now. We promise. We’re gonna make you all bettah. There, there mah sweet little angel.”

  4

  Behind the Rampart Range to the west, the corona of the dying sun reached out the last of its golden tentacles into the high clouds and blue-black sky until one by one, each was extinguished, and day turned to night. In his now familiar and comfortable sleep chamber in the lower level of the big house, Dugan began to a
waken. His eyes half-opened. He felt the usual twinge of vertigo. As so often happened at this stage of his resurrection, a brief image flashed into his mind. This time, it was of the blond girl. A moment later, she was gone. Though he tried immediately to recall her face, he knew it was not to be. He would see her again at an hour of her choosing and no sooner.

  While still lazily wondering about her, something clutched at his feet and dragged him roughly from beneath the bed. Though still unable to raise his head, his fangs extended on their own and began lashing out. The crushing weight of a man’s knee crunched into his midsection to hold him down. His strength slowly returning, Dugan raised his left arm to fend off the attack and felt the barest prick of something enter it. He lowered the now tingling appendage across his chest to defend against the stake, using his other arm to reach out and grab the man by the throat. Pulling him close, he saw it was Lucas.

  Seconds before he would be in range of his fangs, his arm became dead weight and collapsed to his side. He began to feel something foreign swirling its way through his body. Raising his eyes, he saw Lucas capping a syringe. When he tried to lift his head, he learned he was paralyzed. Though his fangs remained extended, their snapping snarls and biting thrusts came to an end. He heard what sounded like gurgling come from his throat. His lungs stopped moving. Struggling for breath, he felt himself spasm. His vision turned red and hazy. He heard a door open, then soft footsteps walk toward his now prone and useless body. As he began to convulse, a face drew close. It was Julian. He was smiling.

  “Be careful what you wish for boy,” he said. “It just might come true.”

  His vision went black. Another convulsion tore through his body as he was lifted from the floor by two pairs of hands. They began dragging him somewhere. He heard the sound of a door opening and realized they were bringing him into the side room containing the casket he had rejected that first night. Only then did he understand what was happening. They were going to kill him.

  Tonight.

  A howl escaped his throat. He managed somehow to throw off one attacker, but only for a moment. Strong hands grasped him once again and continued dragging him across the floor. The casket moved inexorably closer. Its upper and lower ends were raised invitingly. He tried to get words out, to move his mouth and say No No No because I’ve changed my mind was beyond what he was capable of at the moment. One of them grabbed his legs and then he was in the air. He caught a glimpse of the small satin pillow before they unceremoniously dumped his slim body inside the box. He felt a rush of air pass over his face as the lower end of the casket slammed shut. He heard the metallic tink of a clasp locking. A moment later, hands reached above his head to lower the uppermost cover and then, he was in darkness.