by Ward Parker
“You mean read their minds?” Vanderbilt asked.
“It’s more like hearing their voices in my head. I’ve learned to focus my thoughts and ignore the voices, otherwise it’s as if everyone in this room were talking at once. Very distracting.”
“Voices in your head? Sounds like you need to see an alienist,” Vanderbilt joked, scratching his trim beard with a pinkie.
Stockhurst jumped in. “This is not a joking matter, Cornelius. No need to upset him.”
“Father, I’m not upset. If I were, I would tell everyone what Mr. Vanderbilt is thinking and embarrass him.”
“Pish-tosh!” Vanderbilt said. “I don’t believe—”
“For instance, that you are horribly bored right now and the only reason you came to this gathering is that you are working on a secret investment deal with my grandfather. Secret because if word of it got out…shall I go on?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vanderbilt said. He stroked his beard nervously.
“Yes, you do. You’re hoping that I’m bluffing but you’re frightened that I’m not. Fourteen million dollars? That’s a lot of money.”
People gasped.
“Darryl,” Stockhurst said. “Don’t be rude to our guest.”
“Incredible,” Clemens said. “Were you able to focus solely on his thoughts, or were everyone else’s piling in at once?”
“I focused on his and didn’t hear the rest,” Darryl said. “He challenged me, after all.”
Vanderbilt played with his beard and remained silent.
“Please indulge me,” Clemens said. “What am I thinking now?”
“You’re reciting the first lines of Huckleberry Finn. Now you’re thinking you should have picked a work I was less likely to have read.”
“Exactly! And you have superb literary taste.”
Laughter from the crowd.
“Now, tell me what I’m thinking.”
“You’re not thinking in speaking form, just random non-verbal thoughts. You’re picturing a woman’s face, your wife?”
“Precisely.”
“Livy?”
“Yes. Olivia.”
“I hope she’s feeling better.”
“Thank you, son. What a remarkable gift you have.”
“I never thought of it as a gift,” Darryl said. “Everything else that makes me different than normal people has been a curse to me. A punishment from God.”
“Now, now, let’s not get all dreary,” Stockhurst said. “This sherry is too delightful to go with dreariness.”
Clemens continued to question Darryl until Doctor Greer managed to peel him away in order to bombard him with matters that most likely only Greer thought interesting. After a while, Follett decided to rescue the unfortunate author.
“I was there when you spoke at the Friars Club,” Greer said. “It was in January of ’96, I believe.”
“Kind of you to remember what was surely a most forgettable lecture,” Clemens replied.
“Pardon me, gentlemen,” Follett said. “Mr. Clemens, have you had the opportunity to explore this area?”
“Not at all. Too much socializing.”
“There is a patient you might be interested in seeing—a local child who has the strange, paranormal ability to speak for the dead.”
“Are you talking about the limbless girl?” Greer said. “Don’t tell me you buy that channeling-the-spirits nonsense. I thought you were interested in her solely for studying her birth defects.”
“Doctor…Follett, is it?” Clemens said.
“Yes.”
“I’ve attended séances before and don’t put a lot of stock into the notion of mediums channeling dead spirits. But you’re a doctor of medicine?”
“Yes, I am. University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine—did my residency at Bellevue. And I heard a child barely old enough to talk speaking in the voice of my deceased wife.”
“Frank, don’t talk like a madman,” Greer said.
“This does sound interesting,” Clemens said.
“The child is quite well-known for her ability, among the poor quarters of West Palm Beach across the lake there,” Follett said. “They call her ‘Angel Worm.’”
“I’ve often wondered, if minds can communicate over great distances, then why not with the spiritual world?” Clemens said. “But I’ve been hugely disappointed with every charlatan who claims to be able to do it.”
“There’s no guarantee this phenomenon will occur. So far, one of my visits with her has been fruitless. But I want to try again to speak with my wife, and you’re welcome to join me.”
“I dare say I will.”
“Such tomfoolery,” Greer muttered.
* * *
“I read your anti-imperialism essay,” Follett said to Clemens as they rode directly into the setting sun in the hack he hired on the bridge from Palm Beach. “I wish I had read it before I volunteered with the Army.”
“You volunteered?”
“As a contract surgeon. At the time, I thought it was a noble cause.”
“That’s what people think at the beginning of every war. Including yours truly, I confess.”
As they approached the Norris’ neighborhood, Follett felt he had to lower expectations. “I want to be clear that Angelica might not speak tonight.”
“I understand,” Clemens said. “Are you quite certain that she is not part of some spiritualist hoax?”
“You can’t find a more skeptical man than I. And she made me melt like butter in the Florida heat.”
“I’m a rather skeptical man myself, Doctor. I have to admit,” he took a long breath, “years ago, after my younger brother was killed in a riverboat boiler explosion, I was so wracked with grief and guilt that I went to a couple of psychics to attempt to contact him. They tried to take advantage of my need and at first I was gullible enough to fall for their fakery. When I finally realized what kind of fool they made of me it turned me incurably bitter.”
“I’ve never seen any bitterness in your work,” Follett said.
“Good. But behind the humor in my writings lurks more sorrow than you could imagine.”
* * *
Angelica looked at them with indifferent eyes and turned her head back and forth. Her torso bent slightly as her innate instincts sought to move legs and arms that weren’t there.
“You have to be patient,” Follett said. “The child becomes possessed, as it were, at the spirits’ convenience, not ours.”
“I’ll be happy to wait forever,” Clemens said, glancing at his pocket watch, “but I can’t say the same for Mr. Flagler and his guests, who are expecting me. Frankly, the company should be more entertaining without a bore like me, but I don’t think Mr. Flagler would see it that way.”
Trudy tucked the blanket around the child. “Angelica, she just woke from a nap and she don’t care who you have an appointment with.”
“A wise child indeed,” said Clemens. He crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair, seemingly content to wait.
And wait they did. The children’s mother emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. She nodded in recognition to Follett and glanced at Clemens with mild curiosity before going out on the porch with her husband. Trudy eventually left the room as well. Clemens pulled out his pocket watch and replaced it, probably composing in his mind an amusing story about a mad doctor who took him on a wild goose chase of spiritual quackery.
Why did he bring Clemens here? Somehow he assumed the author was a kindred spirit and that not being scientific-minded like Greer, he would believe in what Follett had experienced with Angel Worm. If someone with great credibility believed, then it would make it true. If his wife would only speak through Angelica tonight.
Something shifted in the air, a change in atmospheric pressure or temperature barely perceptible. He looked at Angelica and her face transformed as it did when she “went away.”
“Papa?”
The voice was a young woman�
�s, but not Follett’s wife’s.
“Papa? Is that you?”
Clemens gasped. His face was ashen. He struggled to find words.
“Papa, I’m sorry I left you. I didn’t know what was happening to me.”
“Susy?” Clemens whispered.
“I came down with fever and that is all I remember.”
“Susy! It’s you! My darling—” He choked out a painful sob and tears streamed down his cheeks.
“I should have gone with you and Mother to England.”
“My sweet darling. Where are you?”
“I’ve been in Heaven, Papa. And despite what you say, you would like it here.”
“Thank God you’re safe.”
“Was I a disappointment to you? I always wanted to make something of myself. To be more than Mark Twain’s daughter.”
“My dear, you were brilliant. A wonderful writer, musician, singer…”
“If only I had been an opera star I would have made you proud.”
“But you did make me proud, Susy. You’ll never know how proud I was of you. I worshipped you, my dear. I still do.”
“Mark Twain’s daughter, that’s all I was.”
“But you’re in Heaven now. Don’t upset yourself with criticisms of yourself.”
“Right now I’m not in Heaven. I’m nearby, almost in your world and so I remember the aches and pains of life. I only left Heaven to come here because I sensed there was a way to speak to you. An opening, a willing child who is a portal to your world and I saw you there.”
Her voice sounded weaker, as if she were falling asleep. Angelica’s eyes closed and her head tilted backwards.
“Goodnight, Papa. I’ll always look out for you.”
“Susy, please, don’t go yet. Susy?”
No reply.
“Is she gone?”
“Yes,” Follett said. “It’s as if the portal only stays open for a short time.”
Clemens took out his handkerchief and dried his face. “My God,” he said. “This is heartbreaking.”
“I’m sorry. I hadn’t known you lost a daughter.”
“Susy was my eldest. She died six years ago when she was only twenty-four. Spinal meningitis. Her mother and I were in England when she got sick. Livy sailed back to be with her but didn’t arrive in time. Her death was a thunderstroke that left me never the same again. And now I feel completely knocked off my axis.”
“I know. It’s an amazing gift to be able to speak to them but it leaves you grieving even more. Just a drop of water that leaves you thirstier than before.”
“That’s how I feel. I need to speak with her again. I must convince her that she was so much more than ‘Mark Twain’s daughter.’ I can’t allow her to spend eternity with that unfair criticism of herself.”
“But if she’s in Heaven, why would she have negative thoughts?”
“Because there is no Heaven—in my opinion, that is. Never did believe in it, but I went along with what she said hoping it would calm her.”
They drove back to the hotel in darkness, the carriage jolting on ruts carved into the oyster shell and sand road.
“Yes, we will return to Angelica tomorrow,” Follett said. “There is no guarantee that Susy will come, but we can hope.”
Though, in truth, he hoped it would be Isabel who would come.
* * *
He’d been watching the house off and on for two days now. It was morning, when the child rarely had visitors, but this would still be a difficult one, because she was never left alone by her family except when inside the house. Taking them from inside a house was risky, for certain, especially if it involved crawling in and out of windows. Yes, it would be tough to take this child without getting caught.
But he had to take her. He had no choice. It might as well be today.
The father was elderly, or maybe just beaten down by work and poverty. Wouldn’t it be wiser to take the father instead? No, there could be no deviating from the plan.
The old man had limped into the bedroom and a glimpse through the window showed him taking a nap. The mother was working at a laundry in town and wouldn’t return until late. The biggest hurdle would be the older daughter, who seemed more mature than her years. She remained at home to care for the child and apparently didn’t go to school. He hoped he wouldn’t have to hurt her.
He walked three blocks to retrieve his wagon and parked it closer to the house. It was a small, nondescript delivery buckboard pulled by a single horse, the kind you’d see anywhere. He moved it into a trash-strewn alleyway of sorts behind the house and pulled a hood over his head to hide his identity should he be seen. His spirits soared when he saw that the older daughter was outside, weeding the vegetable patch on the side of the house opposite the window he was going to use.
The good Lord was surely smiling upon him today!
The window in the rear corner of the house was open to let in the breeze. He brought a crate to help him climb through the window, but it was still painful. The air was stifling inside the house. The crib was in the back of the room and the poor, limbless child inside. She was awake, looking up at him. He smiled at her.
“Everything’s gonna be just fine, honey,” he whispered.
Chapter Eight
Someone tapped Follett on the shoulder in the hotel lobby and he turned to see Marshal DeBerry, poorly shaven and wearing his oily hat as usual.
“Doc, I need just a moment of your time to ask a few questions.”
“Of course. About what?”
“About another disappearance this morning. Angelica Norris, the Negro child they call the Angel Worm. You’ve visited her house on more than one occasion.”
He knew it was abhorrent, but Follett’s first thoughts were not concern about the child and her family, but dismay that the conduit to his wife was broken. If Angel Worm was gone, so was his ability to communicate with his wife. He had lost her, regained her, and then lost her again.
“My God, that’s horrible. Yes, I’ve been examining Angelica. As I told you before, I’m a teratologist. I study birth defects. I also brought Doctor Harold Greer and Mr. Clemens—Mark Twain—to see her.”
“Right. All three distinguished gentlemen like yourselves would be above suspicion, of course.”
Follett couldn’t tell if the marshal was being sarcastic or not, which unsettled him.
“I see,” Follett said. “All three of us are well-to-do white men here only during the season. The type most suspected by the locals.”
“You misunderstand my meaning, Doc.”
“Then allow me to ask if you’re questioning me as a possible suspect.”
“I’m questioning you as someone who saw the poor child in recent days and who might have seen or heard anything that can point me in the right direction to find her.”
“I apologize. This news has upset me.”
A governess leading a little boy and girl by the hands passed through the lobby. Children of wealthy white people, impervious to the evil the locals worried about.
“Right. Sorry if this is too personal, but knowing the child’s reputation, and the fact that your wife is deceased, I wonder if you believe you spoke to your wife through the child. Could that be?”
Blood rushed to Follett’s face. “I’m a man of science,” was all he could manage to say.
“Yes, of course, of course. Just thinking out loud. Being able to speak to a deceased loved one is a true gift. It could make someone very covetous of this Angel Worm. Covetous enough to take her? It’s worth thinking on, I’d say.”
The question of whether Clemens could have taken Angelica briefly popped in his mind but he quickly dashed it, feeling guilty that it had even come up. It occurred to him that this kind of paranoia was what DeBerry sought to instill in his interview subjects. DeBerry was making a game of toying with him.
“Marshal, I thought you were dead set on pinning these crimes on Darryl Stockhurst.”
DeBerry pushed up his hat and scratched
his brow, grinning. “Nothing of the sort, Doc. If I was a gambling man I’d put my money on Stockhurst, especially if it turns out that cannibalism is involved like that story Dr. Greer told. But I’ll be happy to be wrong as long as I catch the true perpetrator.”
“Darryl had the finest upbringing. I couldn’t imagine him eating human flesh!”
“Really, Doc? You’ve seen his jaws and teeth.”
“I am forever frustrated by people who believe that a frightening appearance makes someone a monster from folklore.”
“Like I said, I’ll be happy to be wrong.”
A sense of desperation took over Follett as he fully absorbed the reality of the loss of Angel Worm.
“When did she disappear?” he blurted out.
“I told you: this morning.”
“How was she taken?”
DeBerry paused a second, as if unsure whether he would allow Follett to switch roles from possible suspect back to ally. Finally he said, “The kidnapper came in through a window in the rear of the house. The older daughter was outside working in the garden at the time.
“Have you found any witnesses?”
“Not a one,” DeBerry said.
The marshal stared at the lobby without saying anything. Just standing there, thinking. Follett wasn’t sure if the interview was over or not. These local country folk were like that: long conversations in which not much was uttered with frequent stretches of silence. Coming from the city, Follett had no patience for it. Let us say what needs to be said and then be on our way, he thought.
A young woman walked by in a white linen golfing suit and a wide-brimmed felt hat topped with ibis feathers. He thought of Isabel and then his stomach fell at the reminder that he couldn’t communicate with her anymore—that she was alone and lost in limbo, unable to reach Heaven. As painful as it had been to speak with her through Angle Worm, he couldn’t bear not being able to do it again. He couldn’t live after losing her yet again. If only he could hear her voice one more time and somehow ensure that she was in peace at last.
“Marshal, I’ll do anything I can to help you find Angelica and her kidnapper.”
