by Ward Parker
And so he sat and rocked, watching the shadow that looked like hers, aching from the emptiness inside him.
A tuneless whistling robbed him of his solitude. A man was walking drunkenly down the path toward the hotel. When the man passed through a pool of light beneath a lamppost he revealed himself as Spence, his clothes and hair mussed. He was not as staggeringly drunk as the other night when he insulted Follett, but close enough. Follett hoped he wouldn’t be noticed, but when Spence was right below him, he stopped.
“What are you staring at, man?”
Follett realized, with some relief, that Spence didn’t recognize him. He was probably too deep in shadow while Spence was half-blinded by the harsh, electric light from the lamppost.
Follett tipped his hat politely to him, hoping he would move on.
“I asked you a question.”
“I’m not staring at anything, sir. Good evening to you.”
Apparently that wasn’t good enough for him. Spence shuffled over the gravel path and onto the grass closer to the veranda.
“Having a laugh at my expense, are you?” His eyes were glassy in the harsh electric light. His face was white and sickly and beaded with sweat beneath his wispy, blond hair. Follett wouldn’t be surprised if the man did indeed have a heart attack right then and there.
“No, sir,” Follett said, keeping his voice tight so Spence wouldn’t recognize it.
Spence walked closer, shielding the light from his yes with his hand. “You look familiar.”
The crickets suddenly went silent. Movement caught Follett’s eye and he looked past Spence to the swaying tree he had been watching before. There was an additional shadow beneath the tree and it wasn’t swaying like the tree’s own shadow. Something else was there. And it was creeping away from the tree and the darkness behind it, coming toward the hotel.
“You’re the monster doctor. You’re still sitting there?”
Follett ignored him as he watched the dark shape move closer. It was a large man, crouching to remain out of the light. He was deliberately sneaking up on them. And something about his silhouette seemed off.
“Are you going to answer me or am I going to have to come up there and smack some sense into you?”
The dark figure began to run, amazingly fast. Follett saw burning yellow eyes and the glint of white fangs and he realized it was Darryl.
“Watch out behind you!” Follett shouted.
But it was too late. Darryl leaped upon Spence, knocking him over some shrubbery and sending him smashing into the latticework beneath Follett.
Spence’s scream was cut off suddenly, a wet, rasping scrape of breath coming through the gaping wound where his esophagus used to be. Darryl grabbed him by the throat by one hand and held him a couple of feet off the ground.
“I should make you die slowly,” he said in a barely human snarl.
His other hand swiped Spence’s abdomen once then twice and blood poured through ribbons of clothing. Darryl’s fingernails had grown since Follett last saw them and now looked like true claws. They slashed at Spence’s face and came away with an eyeball impaled on one nail, the other dangling from the socket by the ocular nerve.
“I should make this last much longer, but I want to kill you so badly that I can’t hold back,” Darryl said before grabbing Spence’s hand, the one that was hopelessly trying to hold his intestines from spilling out. He opened a mouth of wolf-like teeth and chomped down on the wrist, severing it easily. Blood spurted out, spattering on the veranda railing.
Then Darryl did the same for Spence’s other hand. Follett slipped from his rocking chair to the ground and began sliding backwards across the floor on his backside. He was too afraid to get up and run, and there was no way he would leave his back exposed to this creature.
He slid farther away from the railing until his back touched the veranda’s opposite railing. He tried to muster the courage to get up and sprint toward a door leading inside. Instead he sat, trembling, as the sounds of flesh being torn and bones snapping came from the slaughter below, just out of view.
“Oh, Doctor?” Darryl called. The voice and intonation sounded like someone else, not Darryl.
Follett held his breath. He tried to wish his pounding heart to be silent.
“Doc, I have another present for you.”
A pale object came flying up over the rail and landed with a loud thud a couple of feet from him, bouncing over his legs and rolling until stopped by a rocking chair.
Spence’s severed head stared at him without seeing.
“Now it’s your turn. It’s your fault it got inside me. It’s making me do things and I can’t help it.”
Darryl leaped from the shrubbery up to the veranda and stepped slowly over the railing. He shook his head and his face twitched as he fought the impulse that drove him. Follett squirmed away from him along the floor.
“I shouldn’t enjoy this, but I do.”
A shout came from behind Follett, from one of the doors of the hotel.
“What’s all the ruckus? Hold there!”
A beam from a lantern box caught Darryl, snarling, dripping with blood.
A pistol shot. Darryl looked down at Follett and smiled.
“I’ll be coming for you soon, Doc!” he said before jumping to the ground.
Running footsteps crunched along the gravel path and then faded. There was silence until several minutes later when, the danger gone, the insects resumed their calls.
The man ran over to Follett. It was one of the guards who provided security and reported to Dowling.
“What happened? My God, there’s a head over there!”
“You just answered your own question,” Follett said.
Chapter Seventeen
The Stockhursts’ housekeeper peered through the front door of the cottage with half-asleep eyes.
“Is that you, Doctor?”
“Yes,” Follett said. “I need to speak with Mr. Stockhurst at once. I’ll wait out here.”
Almost immediately, Stockhurst joined him on the porch. His eyes were bloodshot from drink and lack of sleep. His shirt was open and collar removed. He had thrown on a jacket but no vest. His hair stood up at the back and his face hadn’t been graced by a razor in quite a while.
“Has he been found?” were the first words out of his mouth.
“I just saw him, but he escaped. This is difficult to speak about.”
“Tell me! Is he all right?”
“He appears in good health. Mr. Stockhurst, I saw him kill another man tonight.”
His head dropped but he didn’t say anything.
“Richard Spence. Darryl killed him right in front of me. Probably in retaliation for taunting him.”
“Did he use a weapon?”
“No. He didn’t need a weapon.”
“I see.”
“We need to have a frank discussion,” Follett said. “I need to understand more about Darryl’s abilities. For instance, has he always been this strong?”
He nodded. “Fast and strong.”
“Strong enough to decapitate an adult without using a weapon?”
“How should I know?”
“What about his supernatural abilities? Has he always been able to read minds and move objects without touching them?”
“It began after he reached puberty.”
“Mr. Stockhurst, I have a confession to make. At my request, Darryl was using his abilities to attempt to contact the spirit of my deceased wife. In doing so, he became, I think, possessed by a malevolent force—a spirit or entity that had been communicating with him previously. I believe this entity has unleashed Darryl’s powers or perhaps even made them stronger, while encouraging him to seek revenge against anyone who has wronged him, and possibly to pursue this entity’s own agenda. It has freed Darryl from any moral constraint, setting loose the animal that is suppressed within him as it is with all humans.”
“You had promised you wanted to help him,” Diana said, standing in the d
oorway. “But instead you led him into this…this insanity!”
“I apologize,” Follett said. “It was selfish of me, I admit. I’ve made many irrational decisions since I lost my wife.”
“Well, what are we going to do about this?” Stockhurst said.
“I’m afraid that I have to return to New York. There is something I need to investigate.”
“You can’t possibly be serious,” Diana said.
“I need to find out some information that will help us understand Darryl more.”
Diana’s brow furrowed and her nostrils flared as she said in a flat voice, “You can’t leave. You have to help us save him.”
“Miss Strom, you don’t understand. Darryl has threatened my life. I watched a man’s head…I saw a man brutally slaughtered tonight. What purpose would I serve waiting around until Darryl does the same to me?”
“To repair the damage you set in motion,” she said. “I understand you were traumatized by the war and you miss your wife; but still, you must face this. Isn’t the motto of physicians to do no harm? Yet harm is exactly what you have done and now you want to leave.”
“I’ll be happy to compensate you for your time,” Stockhurst said.
“Money cannot heal cowardice.”
“Diana, enough,” Stockhurst said.
Her face reddened.
“I’ll return as soon as possible and stay until he’s found,” Follett said. I don’t want any money. I will do right by Darryl, but I’m doing this for him—not to lessen the scandal for this family. If you saw what I saw tonight, you’d be concerned about more than protecting Darryl. You should be concerned about protecting innocent people from him.”
He turned abruptly and walked away, anger and shame burning his eyes. He hated to admit that he was afraid for his life and that getting out of town and away from danger was appealing. But what bothered him most, aside from the family’s self-absorption, was being accused of cowardice by Diana. From her in particular, it stung. Why did he care so much what she thought of him?
The darkness of the night was beginning to lessen as dawn approached and he walked toward the Royal Poinciana realizing that he would be vulnerable to attack even in daytime since Darryl was so unpredictable and volatile.
How could they stop Darryl without killing him? Sure, a crowd of men with guns could hunt him down and shoot him. But would Darryl allow himself to be captured, or kill himself and others in the attempt? Despite Diana’s accusation, Follett wanted no harm to come to Darryl. He believed he should be confined to an asylum, not a prison, where he could be properly cared for and studied. There was much that medical science could learn from him.
“Doctor, please wait.”
He turned around to see Diana trotting up to him, her skirt held up from the ground by one hand. He stopped and when she reached him he saw by the moonlight the stain of tears beneath her eyes.
“Please forgive me for my thoughtlessness,” she said panting slightly from her run.
“No need for apologies, Miss Strom.”
“Sometimes I forget my manners. Most of the people here are farmers and fishermen. The women have to be just as tough as the men. More so, actually.”
“I understand why you’d call me out for cowardice. I’m convinced I might learn some valuable insights about Darryl in New York, but from your perspective it looks as if I’m ignoring his immediate welfare.”
“You don’t owe me any explanation.”
“Come, let’s go somewhere a little safer. He might still be prowling about.”
“Darryl would never hurt me,” she said.
“You don’t understand. This is not Darryl.”
They approached the Royal Poinciana where a small crowd of men gathered on the veranda and the ground where Spence had been slaughtered. He recognized Dowling supervising them.
“Is that where it happened?” Diana asked.
“Yes. Let’s go around to the lake.”
Follett tried to skirt the hotel as widely as possible but Diana nevertheless saw the body covered with a blanket. Fortunately, it was still too dark for her to see any blood at this distance. As soon as he saw the shimmer of the lake in the waning moonlight, Follett felt better.
They reached the water’s edge and strolled along the walkway past the docks where sharpies, sloops, fishing dories, and steam launches were docked. In this early morning, the tide was going out, bringing with it the freshwater from the inland creeks that fed the lake. The water’s smell was sweet and fresh. Ropes creaked as the boats strained against their moorings in the current. The two had the entire waterfront to themselves at this early hour.
“Allow me to explain certain things,” Follett said. He had the strangest urge to blurt out all his secrets, to release all the pressures he had kept bottled up for so long. Decorum should prevent him from sharing too much with an unmarried woman he barely knew. He didn’t know if decorum had the strength to restrain him.
“I told you that my wife died, but the full story was that she died in childbirth,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” Diana said, softly touching his arm.
He didn’t look at her, he just stared at the walking path along the lake as they left the marina behind them. The palm trees on the lakeshore were all bowed, their crowns bent away from the water as if they couldn’t bear to face it.
“My son died as well. He had severe birth defects. They took his life as well as my wife’s. Now you can see why my career evolved into teratology.”
“And why you’re so fascinated with Darryl,” she said.
“That’s partly why. You see, I’ve occasionally found subjects who are not only cursed with a defect, but also blessed with unusual abilities. Sometimes physical. Sometimes…”
“Supernatural?”
“Yes. But as a physician, I use that word in the strictest sense of its definition of being beyond what is natural. I don’t imbue the word with any mystical, spiritual meanings. It’s rare that someone in my field would even admit that supernatural phenomena exist.”
“Are you willing to let someone with such rare abilities be squandered? That’s what will happen with Darryl—they will kill him.”
“Don’t you believe in the American legal system?”
“I grew up here, in South Florida, in the wilderness. Shoot first, ask questions later is the motto here. Take away the hotels and this place is a frontier town.” She turned to Follett and held him with her eyes. “I’m not asking you to help Darryl escape justice. I simply want to find him before some hick with a rifle does. Then we can hand him over to the proper authorities.”
“Of course, it’s the least I can do. But I need you to grant me a favor: I wish to meet his mother.”
“Oh, my. That won’t be easy. I’ve never met her myself. And she wants nothing to do with Darryl.”
“That’s very sad.”
“Lots of sadness in this family. Maybe after the crisis is over and everyone has returned to New York, Mr. Stockhurst will arrange an introduction for you, but I don’t think she’ll want to see you.”
“I must see her at once.”
“But whatever for?”
“Because I don’t believe William Stockhurst is Darryl’s biological father. I want to find the real father, if possible, because we need to understand Darryl more if we want to stop him without hurting him.”
“Do you wish to create a scandal?”
“I’m a doctor, not a gossip-monger.”
“How will knowing if William is not the real father help?”
“If I can identify the real father, I hope to learn if he had any pathologies, any genetic abnormalities. If he had a history of madness that would help explain what has happened to Darryl. But if he were normal like William…”
“Then what?”
“Then it could be true that Darryl has been possessed. And it would be my fault.”
Diana patted his shoulder, then quickly leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Stop blam
ing yourself. It’s not your fault. Well, not entirely your fault.”
His cheek tingled from her touch, seemingly for hours, as he lay sleepless. Then the buried memories crawled out from the dirt.
* * *
The makeshift field hospital had been in the town of Malinta, captured from the insurgents two days earlier. An operating room and infirmary were set up in a crumbing stone storehouse. The shells from an American gunboat’s artillery whooshed by overhead, landing later with muffled booms in some distant village. Half the men in here had been felled by heatstroke, others from dysentery. A nearby house held a dozen quarantined with smallpox. At the moment, there were 14 men with gunshot wounds, broken bones and lacerations from that horrible machete-like knife the Filipinos call the bolo. The advance toward Malolos had been costly and there was still a long way to go.
One of the Red Cross men stopped him as he was about to step outside for a break.
“Doc, there’s a goo-goo out back wants to see you. A woman from the next village. Something about some sick kids in an orphanage.”
Follett went out a back door to a narrow yard between the storehouse and the jungle, where trash and used dressings were piled before burning. An elderly peasant woman was waiting, accompanied by a boy, perhaps ten or twelve—it was so hard to tell age in these people.
She spoke to him in Tagalog. The boy translated.
“We have little boys, little girls, babies, very sick. Hurt by American bombs. We need doctor, please.”
Follett had no surgeries scheduled that day and Dr. Levin could cover for him if any unexpected casualties arrived. The tricky part was getting permission to go.
“In what village are these children?” he asked the boy.
“Polo.”
That was a pacified town, one with no insurrectos and one of the few the Americans hadn’t emptied of its occupants. He went to the office of the regiment’s senior medical officer, Captain Weaver, in a house shared by other staff officers.
