by Ward Parker
Before long, Connelly took his leave, stumbling slightly as if he had tripped. He seemed in pain as he exited the bar.
* * *
Connelly had told Follett that William Stockhurst would return to Palm Beach after his wife’s funeral and added, rather snippily, that Follett was expected to continue looking for Darryl.
As Connelly walked away, he almost lost his footing, though he had not tripped on anything and the floor was not wet. Then Follett remembered: Connelly had a prosthesis on his left leg below the knee. Since they still have their knees, transtibial amputees can often adjust well to a prosthetic leg and walk with a gait that appears fairly normal. No wonder Follett had forgotten about it. Nevertheless, Connelly’s limp could have been apparent enough to be noticed by the father of the murdered Bishop woman, should Connelly be the murderer. In fact, Follett remembered that on the night in question, Connelly had been following him from Angel Worm’s house, not far from the Bishop’s home.
On an impulse, he decided to follow Connelly. He waited for a moment, then casually sauntered from the room. He spotted Connelly across the huge lobby, entering the tobacco shop. Pretending to study a copy of The Atlantic at the newsstand he passed the time until Connelly came out again, tucking a cigar into his vest pocket. He had to stop suddenly when a messenger darted out of the telegraph and telephone office and cut him off. Again, Connelly was unsteady as he dodged the messenger. Once he exited through the main doors, Follett followed him outside.
Dusk had descended upon Palm Beach and the fragrance of jasmine floated from the hotel gardens. Connelly walked east down the Ocean Walk toward The Breakers; he was probably going to William’s rented house but Follett continued following. He realized that if he wanted to witness Connelly doing something incriminating, it might require many hours of surveillance. But what else could he do at this point?
Follett was careful to ensure that Connelly didn’t know he was being followed. By keeping hidden in the shadows and walking on the sand at the edge of the path to keep his footsteps silent, Follett was able to remain unnoticed.
Follett was also able to hear the sudden crunch of gravel behind him and recognized the sweet smell of the anesthetic chloroform. He turned quickly as a large man lunged at him and grabbed his collar. With his other arm, the man swung a fist holding a handkerchief at his face. Follett tried to twist away as the fumes of chloroform hit his nose.
* * *
Just as Pritchard was finishing his whiskey, the telegraph messenger entered the bar.
“Is there a Mr. Pritchard here?”
“Yes, yes,” Pritchard said, waving he boy over.
“Urgent telephone call for you, sir.”
The boy handed him a slip of paper and Pritchard gave him a nickel tip. The note said that Mr. Wiley was on the line. Obviously, Stockhurst’s assistant had instructions from the boss.
In the hotel lobby he found an alcove with a wall-mounted telephone. He turned the crank and held the earpiece to his ear.
“Operator.”
“This is Ned Pritchard.” He leaned forward so his mouth was closer to the speaking tube. “I understand there is a telephone call for me?”
“Please hold while I connect you.”
There was a brief pause and then a click.
“Mr. Pritchard? This is Wiley.”
“What is it, Mr. Wiley?”
“Have you completed the assignment yet?”
“On the verge of doing so.”
“There has been a change in plans. Mr. Stockhurst is in dire need of a physician for one of his charges, and we have learned that Dr. Follett has treated Mr. Stockhurst’s grandson and is…acquainted with the unique characteristics of the patient. You are to bring the doctor to meet the Wanderer in Biscayne Bay near the town of Miami at once.”
After hanging up, Pritchard fretted. Brezinski wasn’t known for procrastination. What if he had killed the doctor already? Pritchard hurried across the lobby and asked the doorman if he had seen the burly Pole with ginger hair.
“Yes, sir, I did. I believe he headed east on the Ocean Walk.”
* * *
Follett landed a series of jabs on his attacker’s face and then a solid uppercut to the jaw. It didn’t slow the man in the least. He kept moving in, trying to engulf Follett in a bear hug and cover his face with the chloroform-soaked handkerchief. Follett swung a hard right into the man’s nose that drew blood. The man didn’t even blink, just kept coming, now punching Follett in the stomach and nearly knocking the wind out of him. Follett retreated slowly backwards.
But his heel caught a tree root and he was falling backwards, his assailant coming down atop him. And then Follett became a desperate animal, squirming to get out from beneath the heavy weight of the man. His assailant was executing some sort of wrestling hold on him and suddenly Follett ended up lying on his stomach with the man’s arm clamped upon the back of his neck and the other hand mashing the handkerchief into his face. Follett tried to hold his breath but the man’s hold on him was inextricable. Soon he coughed and breathed in the sweet fumes.
Panicking, he twisted until suddenly he slipped from the hold and sat up, facing this attacker.
“Despite what you may have read in the dime novels,” Follett said with the little breath he had left, “chloroform doesn’t work instantly. It can take a few minutes at the least.”
He couldn’t read his assailant’s expression in the dark, but the man leaned forward as if to whisper something. Then he swung the paving stone so quickly that Follett barely saw it before his world went black.
* * *
Pritchard came upon two men walking toward him from out of the shadows. One man appeared to be staggeringly drunk and was being supported—carried, actually—by his companion. When they entered a pool of lamplight, Pritchard saw that it was Brezinski carrying a semi-conscious Follett.
“What good timing,” Pritchard said.
“I am taking the doctor down to the marina for a scenic stroll where he will accidentally fall into the water and drown. If the tide takes him, it could be days before his body is found.”
“Good plan, Brezinski, but we have to cancel it. Our employer has an urgent need for the doctor. One that now requires him to be alive.”
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t look so disappointed. You’ll probably still get to kill him once he’s no longer needed.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
After the day-long trip by schooner from Palm Beach to Miami with his captors, Follett met the legendary Benjamin Stockhurst. The tall, elegant man was sitting in a canopy-top carriage, wearing a top hat and calfskin gloves despite the heat, when the three men climbed in.
“Doctor Follett,” Pritchard said, “this is my employer, Benjamin Stockhurst.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Follett, his head still throbbing from Brezinski’s blow. “I gather that you ordered me to be murdered?”
“I most certainly did,” said Stockhurst.
Follett was taken back by his frankness. The carriage jolted forward.
“May I inquire why?”
“Come now, Doctor, you know very well why. My son’s secretary and companion tells me everything that goes on and I’ve been rather concerned about you. Sure enough, my people in New York tell me you found out about Darryl’s parentage, and you no doubt have impertinent questions about my genetic makeup. But we need a doctor and you’ve already been exposed to our sort.”
“What exactly is your ‘sort’?”
“They tell me you’re a teratologist, one who studies monsters.”
“A literal translation of the Greek root of teratology. I study birth defects, genetic and environmental. I seek their causes and how to prevent them.”
“But what if these monsters you study are not defective, but are a natural state of being?”
Pritchard and Brezinski looked out at the passing wetlands their path crossed, pretending not to listen.
“I assume you mean a d
ifferent species.” Follett stared at Stockhurst, the father of Darryl, who looked entirely normal despite Gloria’s claims that he was a monster.
“Yes,” Stockhurst said. “A different species. If you find this species strange or frightening you may call its members monsters. I, personally, reserve the term monster for an individual who is evil, regardless of what species he is.”
“And how do you define evil?” Follett asked, trying to look into the other man’s eyes, but they were averted.
Stockhurst laughed. “An excellent question which we could spend hours debating.”
“You see, there is the question of what is wrong with Darryl,” Follett said. “Why he went berserk.”
“We’ll get to that later after we resolve the medical issues at hand.”
“If we are able to resolve them,” Follett muttered.
Once the carriage could go no further into the wetlands, the men transferred to a flat-bottomed boat that was waiting for them, piloted by a hairy, bearded man who obviously knew his way around the swamps. They spent what seemed like hours rowing and poling through dense grasses and often getting out and pulling the boat through thigh-deep mud and muck. There wasn’t a single sign of civilization anywhere, except for a Seminole Indian hunting camp they had glimpsed in the distance when first starting out. This was the deepest into any wilderness that Follett had ever gone. And he was about to collapse in the stifling heat and humidity. Stockhurst, despite being very old, appeared to have no trouble enduring the trek.
They arrived at an island of sorts, a hardwood hammock, one of several slightly elevated copses of trees and ferns that were surrounded by a sweeping, grassy expanse of the Everglades.
And he was on the island with two half-human, half-animal creatures.
The creature that was to be his patient was named Garan. He resembled Darryl with his covering of hair, prognathic jaws and mouth full of sharp teeth. He was taller and huskier than Darryl, however, and had longer cutaneous horns on his head. Streaks of silver in his hair showed his older age. His friend or family member, who had guided the men here and hovered away from them at the edge of the hammock, had a more normal, or human, appearance. She was a female with reddish-brown fur that was not as dense as the male’s but was enough to hide her privates. She had no horns and her face was less elongated.
The patient, curled upon the ground in the shade of gumbo limbo and mahogany trees, moaned softly from pain. There were traces of dried vomit on his stomach fur. Follett reached down and pressed his hand on the creature’s forehead. It was very warm. He took from his black bag a thermometer.
“Does he understand English?” he asked.
“I will translate,” Stockhurst said.
“Tell him not to bite down on this thermometer.”
Follett waited but Stockhurst said nothing.
“Well?”
“I told him,” Stockhurst said.
More telepathy, Follett thought as he gently inserted the instrument into the patient’s mouth. When he removed it, he was shocked to see it registered 106 degrees Fahrenheit.
“One hundred six! That could be fatal.”
“In a human, perhaps,” Stockhurst said. “In his case it’s high but not alarming.”
Follett examined the patient’s belly. It had signs of swelling. He pressed his fingers into the lower right abdomen and the creature made a high-pitched whine.
“Does anyone know how long he has been in pain?”
After a few moments of silence, Stockhurst said, “His mate says that he has been sick for two days with severe pain, nausea, and chills.”
“I think it might be appendicitis. He needs surgery right away or he may die.”
“He was preparing to die,” Stockhurst said, “but I will not permit it.”
“Then we need to get him to a hospital. A real hospital with modern equipment. Is there such a thing down here?”
“There is no hospital in Miami.”
“There must be a surgeon there. We need to get to one right away. If his appendix ruptures, it could cause a fatal infection.”
“You’re the only doctor I will allow to see Garan.”
“I don’t perform surgery anymore.”
“It has to be you. No one else.”
“Then blast it all! Get us to a doctor’s office with a well-equipped operating room. We can keep the patient hidden from any observers. And if I follow your wishes, you must agree to one thing.”
Stockhurst arched his eyebrow.
“You must agree to set me free afterwards.”
“Agreed.”
* * *
When they returned to Miami with the patient the carriage was met by a Stockhurst employee, a hulking man who was sent off to find a facility suitable for surgery. In a surprisingly short time they arrived at a white clapboard house in a village called Coconut Grove, the next town south along Biscayne Bay from Miami. The physician who owned it had been paid handsomely to rent it to Stockhurst for the evening and, despite his entreaties, to vacate the premises and not assist in the surgery.
As he assessed the operating room and instruments, Follett’s mouth was completely dry and his throat felt thick. The last time he had performed surgery was in the Philippines, forced against his will like he was now. It had been over two years since that day, and he had tried to keep the memories repressed. But he had also vowed never to perform surgery again and here he was.
On that freakishly hot day over two years ago, the Filipino officer’s son had been lying in a bed with a giant mahogany headboard, tended to by two women. One was very old and toothless and the other was in her twenties or thirties. Both were frightened and looked at the Americans with alarm when they entered the room.
The officer said something in Tagalog and the women seemed relieved. The younger one grabbed Follett’s arm and pulled him to the bed. The boy’s head was covered in blood-stained bandages as was his chest. His olive skin and delicate features were echoed faintly in the roughened visage of his father.
“Describe to me his wounds,” Follett said to the Filipino officer.
“Shot in the head and the chest, near his heart,” the officer said, fighting back tears. “He has not awakened since.”
“I need water quickly—hot if you can,” Follett said. “Simms, you’re going to have to serve as my assistant.”
With Simms’ help, Follett removed the head bandages. The wound was in the anterior of the skull, on the right side of the boy’s forehead—a transfrontal entry wound. Follett cleared a large clump of coagulated blood from the wound and inserted a finger into the hole. It appeared to be a larger caliber bullet, most likely a .30-40 Krag round from an American regular infantry unit. He touched skull fragments among the brain tissue. They would have to be removed. The only way to find where the bullet lay, aside from surgery, would be using one of the new Röntgen ray machines. The only ones in the Philippines were in Manila and on the American hospital ships.
“The bullet entered the frontal lobe, passing through. Not sure where in the skull it’s lodged. I’m afraid there’s hemorrhaging in the brain. Where’s that water?”
The younger woman brought him a large bowl and he bathed the boy’s face and skull. He opened the boy’s eyes and observed that one pupil was larger than the other. It indicated intracranial pressure—swelling of the brain. Follett did not want to perform brain surgery in the field like this, but he would have to relieve pressure on the brain or the boy would die.
Next, he examined the chest wound. The bullet had entered through the upper sternum, missing the aorta by probably only an inch or less. He turned the boy over and found an exit wound just below the left shoulder blade. There was no sign of hemorrhaging, so he cleaned the wounds and doused them with a good amount of iodine before applying clean bandages. That was the best he could do for now.
He turned to the officer who was standing in the corner of the room across from the one window. His face was death-white.
“The b
ullet that entered your son’s chest appears to have missed his heart and major blood vessels. We’ll have to wait to get to a hospital to investigate more thoroughly.”
“We’re not going to a hospital unless it’s in Filipino-controlled territory. He can go up to Malolos if the Americans don’t get there first.”
“But that’s too far. He’d never survive the journey.”
“I’m not giving my son to the Americans.”
“He needs a craniectomy to relieve the swelling in his brain and allow me to remove bone fragments that will cause infection. It needs to be done very soon. I don’t have the instruments for that.”
“You will improvise. It’s what we patriots have been doing for nearly ten years now since we took up arms against the Spanish. You will make do with what you have.”
Simms looked at Follett with deep concern.
“I apologize for using medical language,” Follett said. “I have to remove part of your son’s skull. Do you understand?”
“Of course I understand. Use what tools you have.”
“Doing nothing at all might be better for him than foolhardy surgery. His chances are not good as it is. Why risk further injury?”
“You will do what you can to save my son. If you refuse, you will die.”
Follett wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve and stared through the angled-open slats of the closed window shutters at the field behind the house, trying to formulate a plan for the surgery. He had never performed brain surgery before. Even here in the war there were few surgeons with that expertise, since most soldiers with penetrating head wounds died before they could reach an operating room. He had assisted during one procedure with Doctor Scherer, and that experience—along with his ancient memories from medical school—would have to suffice.
