by Ward Parker
“And a pillow, please—a”
Like the bag, it flew to him without any movement from Darryl, traveling from a settee in the corner of the room right into his hands. This time, he caught a glimpse of it flying at an unimaginable speed.
Follett was too caught up in the emergency at hand to wonder how Darryl had done this. He placed the pillow beneath the patient’s neck and tilted his head back.
By now, aseptic surgery was universally accepted and he felt uneasy doing what he needed to do in a non-sterile location outside of a hospital. But the man couldn’t breathe so there was no choice. He took an eyedropper from the bag, removed the rubber bulb and poured rubbing alcohol over it. He next doused the patient’s neck and throat with the alcohol, selected a scalpel and began the laryngotomy. It was a simpler operation than a tracheotomy, but he hadn’t done one since he served with the Army in the Philippines.
He ran his left finger along the throat feeling for the depression in the center of the cricothyroid membrane. He hesitated for a second before making the incision as his right hand trembled, the one that held the scalpel. Sweat dampened his collar. His breathing quickened and his hands tingled.
Not this again. Forget the memories. Concentrate on the work at hand.
Darryl was studying his face.
“You’ll be fine, Doc. It’s just a simple procedure.”
Darryl was right. Besides, he couldn’t delay any more as the patient’s face turned blue. He steeled himself, then drew the blade through the skin of the throat in a short vertical line, the blood beading along as he cut down through the fascia and exposed the cricothyroid membrane. Then he made a crosscut through the membrane as if he were carving a plus sign, careful to avoid the cricothyroid artery. Finally he inserted the glass pipe from the eye dropper into the opening as an improvised tracheotomy tube.
At once air rushed in and out of the pipe as the patient’s breathing was restored.
“Out of sight!” Darryl said.
Follett’s shoulders sagged as he finally relaxed a bit. He used an alcohol-soaked gauze pad to mop up the blood and bandaged the wound with fresh gauze and adhesive tape, covering the wound and making an air-tight seal around the breathing tube.
“Where is the nearest hospital?” he asked Darryl.
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Miss Strom, come in here, please!”
The door opened so quickly that she must have been right outside the room.
When she saw the patient, her mouth opened into a large “O” but she didn’t say anything. She knelt and placed a hand on the patient’s arm, looking at Follett and awaiting a command.
“We need to get him to a hospital at once,” he said.
“There isn’t a proper hospital in hundreds of miles at least. It’s easy to forget at these fancy hotels that you’re on the frontier. We’ll have to take him to Dr. Hood’s office. It’s near the Royal Poinciana.”
Diana left to summon a servant and within minutes, Follett and the patient were in a pedicab, James peddling furiously toward the larger hotel, struggling with the weight of Sven-or-Carl. Diana said she would follow. When they reached the hotel they turned south along a sandy lane, passing private homes until they pulled in front of a house with a sign that read, “H.C. Hood, M.D., Physician and Surgeon.” Fortunately, the doctor was in and a nurse led them around to the rear of the residence where the four of them carried the patient into an examining room.
“Excellent work on the laryngotomy,” the elderly mutton-chopped Henry Hood said, clapping Follett on the back.
“I used to be a surgeon.”
“Used to be?”
“I came to realize it wasn’t for me. I preferred to concentrate on research.”
“Nevertheless, would you care to assist me in the surgery? It should be interesting indeed. Never saw anything quite like this before.”
* * *
With a successful operation behind them, the two men sat on Dr. Hood’s front porch steps smoking when Diana appeared, walking down the lane. Follett’s pulse quickened when he saw her, and that reaction bothered him. It felt unfaithful to his wife’s memory.
“The patient will be fine,” Follett told her with a smile as she opened the gate and came up the brick walk. “Down here in Florida it seems that improvisation is the protocol, but Henry performed like he’d done this dozens of times.”
“Poor Sven. Darryl told me what happened,” she said, sitting beside him, chewing nervously on the fingernails of her left hand. “He’s very apologetic. I told him it was obviously an accident but he blames himself. It seems to me that your contraption shares much of the blame.”
Follett described the catapulting of the brass weight and the remarkable precision of its flight.
“To suggest that it was anything but the most incredible confluence of luck would imply that somehow Darryl controlled the flight of that weight with his mind,” he said, not mentioning what he’d seen of his bag and the pillow. “I believe the term the spiritualists use is ‘telekinesis’—mind over matter.”
“And as a man of science, you’re skeptical.”
“I’m obligated to be. But if I see enough empirical evidence to believe in such a power, I will believe—and attempt to find a scientific explanation for it. Have you witnessed other incidents like this?”
She smiled. “Ah, perhaps one or two. Or twenty.”
“You’re not being serious, are you?”
“You come to expect the unexpected with the Stockhursts. They create their own reality. Money lets you do that, I guess. But Mr. Stockhurst really is a dear—quite a gay fellow and very entertaining. And Darryl, despite his temper, is a sweet young man who means well.”
“But what about these…abilities of his—like reading thoughts?”
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion and her mood seemed to change. “I don’t understand why you’ve taken such an interest in Darryl.”
“I thought Stockhurst had explained to you. I’m a teratologist, I study birth defects.”
“But why do you care about his psychic abilities? Are they birth defects?”
“Perhaps. If you believe what Darwin wrote, improvements in a species begin with mutations. A mutation doesn’t have to be a defect; it can, in fact, represent an improvement.”
“I didn’t think a doctor would believe, let alone discuss, mind reading and moving objects with your mind.”
“Well, I have witnessed them. I don’t know what I believe, but observation is the first part of understanding.”
“How do I know that Darryl—that we—can trust you?”
He thought for a moment. “Has Darryl ever exhibited his abilities in front of any other medical doctor who examined him?”
“No.”
“That he did so in front of me could mean that he trusts me. And you should, too.”
She sighed, then got up from the porch steps and climbed into the pedicab. Follett followed.
“As a man of science, you should observe what Darryl can do rather than hear from me secondhand.” She raised her head and held him in a serious gaze. “But there is something else that troubles me greatly.”
She took a deep breath before continuing.
“It began with the conversations. And I wasn’t eavesdropping—I’m not that kind of woman.”
“Of course not. But please go on.”
“Sometimes I hear Darryl talking when he is alone in his room. He doesn’t realize his voice carries—I imagine this vacation cottage is much smaller than his other homes. And it’s not a matter of him muttering to himself absentmindedly. These are conversations.”
“With an imaginary friend?”
“That’s what I thought at first. If only that were the case.”
Her gaze wandered as they passed a thicket of bougainvillea erupting in purple blossoms. Follett waited for her to continue.
“They are not playful conversations. They are philosophical discussions, debates, about the nature of evil and subjects l
ike that. Often contentious and argumentative. It’s difficult to believe speaking with an imaginary friend would sound like that. It sounds like Darryl is resisting being persuaded.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone is trying to talk him into being bad. I hear him say things like, ‘I am not evil,’ and ‘no, that is not my true nature.’ I even heard him say, ‘just because I look like a monster doesn’t mean that I am a monster.’ It’s really quite disturbing.”
“It could be a mental disorder. Do you know if Darryl has been examined by an alienist?”
“I believe so. Nothing came of it. But recently, something happened that made me doubt he has a mental disorder.”
“What?”
“I heard the other person who has been talking to him.”
Follett sat silently. What she said made no sense.
“It was a man, an older man,” she said. “He spoke mockingly that Darryl is enslaved by a hypocritical, repressive society. That he is ignoring his potential. He said that Darryl has powers he doesn’t even know about.” She shook her head. “He said that Darryl doesn’t have to just look like a monster—he can actually be a monster and never have to obey anyone’s rules ever again.”
“Who is this ‘he’? There was a man in Darryl’s room?”
“I heard the voice of a man in his room. I am positive I did. And you know the way Darryl speaks, his lisp and all, that he couldn’t have imitated another person’s voice like this. But when I entered the room, there was no one there.”
“Could he have escaped through the window?”
“You don’t understand. There was no physical man.”
He must have had a look of incredulity because her face suddenly flushed. The red was deepest in her cheeks and at the base of her long, slender neck.
“What is wrong with me,” she said. “I shouldn’t be telling this to a stranger.”
He was hurt. “I’m not a stranger.”
“Okay, practically a stranger.”
“Why, thank you! That’s so much kinder.”
“I don’t know what you want with Darryl, but I’ve sworn to look out for his welfare. I don’t want doctors like you taking him away and conducting experiments.”
“I want to help him too!”
“Dr. Follett, good afternoon. Please let me off here.”
When James stopped peddling, Follett scrambled out of the seat and offered a hand to help her.
“Please, allow me to walk you home.”
“It’s a short walk. I can manage it fine.”
“Well then, I’ll just walk along with you.”
* * *
When Follett dropped Diana off at the cottage, Marshal DeBerry was on the porch speaking to Darryl. Both were seated while Stockhurst stood behind his son. The young man wore gloves and his head was covered by a brown velvet hood with holes for his eyes and mouth. Somehow the modesty didn’t make him any less threatening.
DeBerry was speaking in his calm, laconic way as Diana and Follett walked up the porch steps, but Stockhurst was as tense as piano wire. Darryl held an indifferent, slouched posture.
“So you say you were ‘wandering about’ near midnight. Were you alone?”
“Miss Strom was with me,” Darryl said.
Everyone turned to look at the two arrivals. Stockhurst seemed alarmed to see Follett with Diana while DeBerry appeared unsurprised that he was mixed up in all of this.
“Marshal,” Stockhurst said, “this is Diana Strom. And Dr. Frank Follett.”
“Afternoon, ma’am,” DeBerry said, removing his hat. His hair was uncombed. “Good to see you again, Doc.”
Follett nodded and the marshal turned back to Darryl.
“So where exactly did you go during your wandering?”
“To the beach,” Darryl said. “Then into the woods a bit. Quite a lot of creatures come out only at night and I like to spot them.”
“Did anyone see you,” DeBerry said, “aside from Miss Strom?”
“Not that I’m aware of. I try to stay away from people. They might be frightened by me, as you may understand.” He chuckled nervously. His lisp seemed worse, probably because of stress.
DeBerry didn’t smile or acknowledge the reference to Darryl’s appearance. “Did you cross the lake to West Palm Beach?”
“No, sir. We stayed on the island. I always do.”
“How often do you wander about at night?”
“Not so often. Usually when father is out late gaming at Bradley’s,” he said, referring to the infamous gambling house that catered to resort guests but not to locals.
Stockhurst reddened. “I have some good chums who go there,” he said.
“So is this all about those people who went missing?” Darryl said.
DeBerry nodded.
“Why would you think that I had something to do with it?”
“Lots of folks think you did. But I’ll come to my own conclusion.” He stood up and replaced his hat. “Thank y’all for your time.”
As DeBerry walked away from the cottage, Follett hurried to catch up with him.
“Marshal, have you come to any conclusions yet?”
DeBerry studied his face as they walked. “I’m not at all sure I should be discussing the investigation.”
He stopped and continued to stare at Follett.
“I think the abductor wants something from his victims,” DeBerry went on. “I think he kills them only after he’s done with them. So I think he keeps them alive for a time.” He resumed walking.
Follett walked quickly to keep up with him. “You’re thinking about the burns on the man found at the beach?”
He nodded.
“Do you believe he tortures his victims?”
DeBerry stopped again and studied Follett, this time as if he were sizing him up as a possible ally instead of a suspect. “Is that your medical judgment?”
“I couldn’t say unequivocally after examining the burns on the body found on the beach, but it’s a possibility I would consider.”
“The county coroner—not only does he live 100 miles away, he ain’t even a doctor. So if we find another body, I’d appreciate you taking a look at it.”
“I’ll be happy to,” Follett said, even though he actually wouldn’t be happy at all.
“Twelve disappearances over the past three years. Mostly colored folk but there’s been a couple of Seminoles and whites, too. And it’s probably more than twelve, since few of them had families and even when they did, those folks are afraid to deal with the authorities. Can’t say I blame them, ‘cause I witnessed a lynching once when the jailers gave an innocent colored man to the mob.”
“Were any other bodies found?”
“Just one. Last year. An old man who did some work for the hotels but got fired and never worked again. Did some begging around town. Found him in the ‘Glades. The gators had gotten to him but we identified him.”
“Have you learned anything about the man found on the beach?”
He shook his head. “No. And I’ve tried. No one’s reported a missing person matching his age and I asked around in all the colored sections. And none of the fishermen or steamer captains saw anyone dumping something suspicious at sea. Looks like I’m gonna have to chalk this up as another unsolved murder.”
“I had no idea there were this many.”
“The killer thinks he can get away with it because they’re the castoffs of society so no one cares. So far he’s been right. But I care and I’m gonna stop him. Makes me regret that Henry Flagler ever set foot in these parts.”
“How so?”
“That’s when all this started—when the Royal Poinciana was built and the railroad came through. Oh, sure, folks loved all the money pouring in and the real estate going up, but all I’ve seen is a heap of trouble.”
“You believe the murderer is a hotel guest?”
“Could be. Or a servant or aide. But not a local, since the abductions only take place during the Season.�
��
“Unless it’s a local who wants to make it seem like a visitor is doing it.”
“Nope. This isn’t the kind of killer who waits eight, nine months a year to satisfy his urges. The people disappear during the Season because that’s the only time he’s here.”
Chapter Six
He smells her when he sits down for breakfast: the scent of lavender as he enters the hotel dining room, amid the smell of toast and rich coffee and the smokiness of bacon. The mornings before he’d set off to perform his rounds at the hospital had been among his happiest moments with her. And today as he opens up the morning news with its dry accounts of mergers and acquisitions and body counts of insurgents killed in the Philippines and smells the fresh paper and sweet-scented ink he forgets that he is in the hotel and returns to their drawing room in the city where they ate breakfast because it received the morning light. The drone of conversation in the dining room fades away and instead he hears the loud ticking of the clock on their mantle and the clip-clopping of hooves and rattle of carriages below on Charles Street. And amidst the buttery smell of biscuits, the aroma of lavender comes to him. He doesn’t know how, but he feels that she is sitting with him, hidden by the newspaper he holds aloft, and she will tell him about the day she has planned and the wallpaper she will buy for the nursery and against which wall she now believes the crib should go. And he doesn’t want to put the newspaper down. Never. He will never put the newspaper down so that he will never know she isn’t really here and he will make this moment live forever and thus she will not be taken from him. And all along he knows how desperate and futile his thoughts are. But still, the lavender, French, just like her favorite…
“Hmph. Can’t say I expected them to be out in public eating breakfast.”
