by Ward Parker
Follett stepped off the train at the Royal Poinciana, his head still aching. Stockhurst had insisted on sending him back to Palm Beach by boat, but Follett refused. He didn’t feel safe being alone with Pritchard and the Pole again, despite Stockhurst’s promise not to have him killed.
Walking through the hotel lobby, Follett heard the familiar drawl behind him.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
He turned around to see Clemens with a concerned expression on his face.
“Where were you, old boy? You simply disappeared without any explanation.”
“It was against my will.”
“I see. Would that explain the gargantuan bruise on your head?”
“Let me take a bath and I’ll meet you for lunch in the Garden Grill.”
* * *
Finally clean from the muck of the Everglades, Follett found Diana and Clemens waiting for him at a table at the Grill, a much smaller alternative to the main dining room. Here sun streamed in from glass roof panels among dense potted palms and hanging gardens.
“Frank! What happened to your head?” Diana said as he sat down.
Before he could answer, a waiter appeared to take their orders. Once he was dispensed with, Follett laid his hands flat upon the linen tablecloth and began his story.
“Forgive me if I am too blunt or crude, but it’s best if I get all the facts out at once. When I was in New York, I interviewed Darryl’s mother. She admitted that she was raped by Benjamin Stockhurst and that Darryl was his child, not William’s. Furthermore, she claimed—and this will sound preposterous but allow me to explain—that Benjamin transformed into some sort of monster and later back to human form.”
Diana started to object but Clemens silenced her by holding a finger to his lips.
“Yesterday, Benjamin Stockhurst confirmed this. He is indeed of another species, able to shift into human form. This species is genetically close enough to ours that mating between the two will create offspring, though this offspring cannot shape-shift. I saw other examples of this offspring in the Everglades, creatures that look just like Darryl. Diana, did Darryl ever suspect he wasn’t fully human?”
She paused before speaking, obviously overwhelmed. In a voice just above a whisper she said, “He said things like that from time to time, but I thought it was simply hyperbole from being upset at his condition. I don’t know what he truly believed.”
“The remains we found buried at the poacher’s camp, are, I imagine, from this species or the offspring,” Clemens said.
“I would wager that is true,” Follett said. “This species—Stockhurst called it cral—prefers to live in remote lands.”
“I’ve never heard of such a creature,” Clemens said.
“Neither had I. But let me continue. Crals can hide in human form among us, as Benjamin Stockhurst does. But the half-human offspring, those who look like Darryl, are essentially banished to the wilderness. Stockhurst’s relief missions to the Philippines are actually means of transporting these creatures to new uninhabited lands.”
“And he used his money and power to get us into war for that reason?” Clemens said.
Follett nodded. “But we must focus on finding Darryl. The spirit that possesses him is that of an adversary of Stockhurst whom he killed many years ago. It will likely kill Darryl once it’s done with his body.”
Their lunch came and they merely picked at it, except for Follett who devoured his Indian River oysters, fried snapper, and roast pork with a vengeance. After a long silence, Diana spoke.
“You still haven’t said exactly what happened to you.”
“I was taken against my will to treat one of Stockhurst’s offspring in the Everglades. Appendicitis. Also, my knowledge of Stockhurst’s secrets has become rather a liability for me, hence the contusion on my head.”
“Frank, please be careful,” Diana said, pressing her hand upon his.
“I always am,” he said with a smile.
After the meal, Clemens took Follett and Diana aside in the lobby.
“Do crals and their offspring hunt humans?” he asked.
“Are you thinking of Darryl?”
“Or any of them.”
“I asked Stockhurst the same question and he denied it. But they have been known to eat humans so I suppose it is a possibility.”
“But you don’t believe it?”
Follett maneuvered the three of them away from a pair of chatting women and stopped near the grand staircase at the rear of the rotunda.
“I’ve been thinking about Connelly as a suspect,” Follett said. “I’m sorry, Diana.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve never liked the man. He’s a degenerate and a bad influence on William.”
“Well, wait until you hear this. I’ve learned that he’s a paid informant for William’s father, spying on his own employer and friend. So in my opinion his character is lacking. He had more opportunity than anyone else to plant Angel Worm’s blanket in Darryl’s closet. And he walks with a limp, like the mysterious man seen when Emily Bishop disappeared. In fact, I saw Connelly myself near that neighborhood the night before. And if we could link him to the boat found washed ashore after we discovered the boy’s body…”
“Oh,” Diana said with a start. “I do recall he’s an accomplished sailor. I remember he and Mr. Stockhurst talking about racing yachts off Newport, Rhode Island, each summer.”
“Good to know. I think he’s worth investigating.”
“Investigate, yes,” Clemens said. “But you don’t have enough to accuse him.”
“Nor anyone.”
A squeak of leather by his ear made Follett look up at the staircase beside him. A person ascended the stairs above, then disappeared down a hallway at the first landing. A person who had been eavesdropping on their conversation.
* * *
Follett was in a deep sleep in his room at the Royal Poinciana but somehow awakened to a faint clicking and rattling sound coming from the doorknob. His heart picked up speed.
Darryl.
In the light from the hallway that came through the transom above the door he saw the doorknob shift slightly to the left and right as the clicking of a metal tool came from the lock.
If it were Darryl, he thought, why would he be picking the lock instead of breaking down the door?
He rose quickly from the bed, put on his robe in the dark, and felt inside his doctor’s case until he found his scalpel, which he placed in the pocket of the robe. He glanced around the room for a place to hide. The closet wouldn’t do since the door didn’t have a lock. The bathroom had a lock but it would be obvious he was in there. He looked out the bathroom window but there was no ledge below, only a three-story drop to the ground. He left the window open just in case he became desperate enough to exit that way.
When a distinct click came from the bedroom door’s lock he dove under the bed. He didn’t know what else to do.
The door creaked slightly as it opened and hallway light briefly swept across the room’s carpeting before the door was carefully closed. In that brief instant, he stared from beneath the bed at the shoes of the intruder stepping into the room. They were expensive, city boots with traces of Everglades muck still on them.
It was one of Stockhurst’s men, either Pritchard or the Pole who had tried to kill him before. So Stockhurst was breaking his promise to spare his life. Follett wasn’t surprised.
The boots pointed toward the bed and came closer, before stopping right beside it. A spring creaked as the intruder pushed down upon the mattress.
He’s feeling for bed-warmth, Follett realized, to ascertain how recently the bed had been vacated. Which, of course, was only a moment ago.
The boots retreated from the bed and walked across the bedroom. The closet door opened and then closed. Next, the bathroom door was pushed open and footsteps clicked across porcelain tile. The intruder paused for a while in there—perhaps thinking Follett had escaped through the open window.
Then the boots retu
rned, heading back toward the bed.
* * *
Pritchard gathered his few clothes from his room’s tiny wardrobe and placed them in his valise. A train was leaving in 35 minutes and he hoped to be on it and away from here before Brezinski completed his assignment. Because of the time restraints, the assassin would probably be less discreet than normally, and, frankly, Pritchard didn’t want to be linked to any unpleasantness if things went awry. The boss’ orders were to silence Follett immediately and there hadn’t been an opportunity to do it on the train ride back to Palm Beach. So it would have to be tonight, here in the hotel. Pritchard was confident Brezinski would complete the assignment, but there were so many variables in a busy hotel such as this.
He jumped as a sharp tap came from the window.
What in blazes is that?
Then another. It sounded like pebbles hitting the glass, like someone below was throwing them to get his attention. He hadn’t done something like that since he was a child. Brezinski ought to know better.
Pritchard went to the window, thrust the curtains aside and looked out but couldn’t see anyone. He opened the window and leaned out of the opening. No one was down there.
“Brezinski?” he called in a hoarse whisper.
He sensed the presence of someone above him on the roof too late to retreat inside. Claws sank into his cheeks and jaw and pulled him upwards sharply. His feet left the floor as he was lifted out of the window and he spread his legs to hold onto the frame. His arms flailed about his head until his hands touched fur and then punched at the jaws that clamped on his neck at the base of his skull. His legs scraped across the window frame as he was yanked out.
He lost consciousness, mercifully, not long after the back of his head was gnawed off.
* * *
The muck-spattered boots stopped beside the bed. The one to his right slid backwards at an angle and a bent knee settled on the carpet. The intruder leaned on the mattress and his upside-down face appeared. It was the Pole. He smiled when he recognized Follett.
“Don’t you know there might be spiders under there?” the Pole said in his thick accent. “I’m afraid of spiders. The only creatures that bring fear to me.”
Follett lashed out with the scalpel in his right hand, aiming for the posterior tibial artery in the Pole’s lower leg. But due to the tight space beneath the bed his thrust was awkward and he merely stabbed the man’s calf muscle.
The Pole jumped back, landing on his backside, as he pulled the scalpel out of his leg. He cursed in Polish.
“Because of that, I will make your death much more painful than it had to be, you stupid skurwysyn.”
He stood up, his pant leg drenched in blood, and tore the mattress from the bed, flinging it aside. He stared down through the bedsprings at Follett.
“A doctor shouldn’t hurt anyone,” he said. “You have so much regret from hurting me. You will kill yourself in shame.”
Inexplicably, he turned away and went to the closet. Follett pushed the bedframe up and onto its side and stood up, the wall to his back and the bed like a fence between him and the Pole. The Pole returned from the closet with one of Follett’s neckties in hand. Follett pushed the bed toward the man as fast as he could, hoping to slow him long enough to escape through the door.
When the bed collided with him, the Pole staggered only slightly then pushed hard, sending the bed and Follett back against the wall. Follett’s heart sank as he realized how strong the man was.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, you will try to hang yourself. Then you will jump from the bathroom window onto your head.”
He wrapped an end of the tie around each hand and came at Follett who managed a good roundhouse blow to the man’s jaw. The Pole stepped back in surprise with his eyes watering, but advanced again with a fury. Follett jabbed at his arms and tried to block the necktie but as the Pole pressed in, he head-butted Follett and managed to slip the tie around his neck.
Follett was yanked by the neck, sending the bed clattering upside down on the floor. He tripped over it and suddenly was hanging by his neck from the tie. He grabbed the Pole’s arms and tried to pull himself to his feet, but the Pole yanked him violently and he floundered more.
He couldn’t breathe at all. Specks floated across his vision. The Pole dragged him into the bathroom as color drained from his vision and it narrowed, as if he were looking through a microscope. He was losing consciousness quickly.
He must have blacked out briefly, because he found himself draped with his stomach over the windowsill, his upper body hanging outside. He could breathe now, though the tie was still wrapped around his neck. But then as he looked down at the garden three stories below him and the Pole rammed his shoulder into his buttocks and pushed, he panicked. He flailed his arms and managed to grab the windowsill with his right hand, but he couldn’t pull himself backwards.
Then a huge weight landed on his back and knocked the wind out of his lungs. Knife-like objects dug into his back as he wheezed, fighting to breathe, and then the weight pushed off him and he heard the Pole scream.
Follett pulled himself off the windowsill and into the bathroom, trying not to look as the monster attacked the Pole. A spray of blood hit him as he darted from the bathroom but before he could escape his room into the hall, Darryl somehow beat him to the door.
Darryl towered above him, breathing heavily, chewing a hunk of the Pole’s flesh. His eyes glowed yellow and looked entirely unfamiliar, not like Darryl’s at all, as did his facial expressions and the way he held himself. He stared intently at Follett, swallowing the meat and licking the blood from his chops. Follett backed away.
“Where is his father?” the monster asked.
Follett was confused. “Whose father?”
“The father of this half-breed I’m stuck with. He contacted me and I saw that he was coming here with his men.”
“He’s on a ship anchored off Miami, due to sail to the Philippines.”
The possessed Darryl growled and said, “He fooled me.”
“I’m sorry,” Follett said, backing away further from the monster. He was across from the open bathroom door now and forced himself not to look at the carnage inside.
“If you want to live—if you want the half-breed to live—you will make Stockhurst come here and face me. I will wait, and I will be hungry. The longer I wait the more people will die, beginning with everyone Darryl loved or hated or simply knew. If he still refuses, I’ll find another host and kill this faulty, half-breed husk he fathered.”
The monster rushed at Follett, who cringed in fear, but it passed him and went into the bathroom. Follett endured the horrible sounds of the monster feeding again upon the body of the Pole before it finally climbed through the window and disappeared.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Doctor, have you gone absolutely mad?” William Stockhurst said. He was having morning coffee with Diana on the porch of his new rental home when Follett rushed over, arriving still shaken after his narrow escape from death. He had spent hours being interviewed by hotel security about the death in his room and it was mid-morning before he could leave the property.
“You have to believe me or more people will die.”
“Please, Mr. Stockhurst, listen to him,” Diana said.
“I don’t have to do anything. You,” he pointed at Follett, “and your literary celebrity who thinks he’s a detective have lost me my personal secretary. He says you are making scurrilous accusations against him, so he left us to protect himself as well as me. I found his resignation letter this morning—it’s a horrible surprise. Dan was invaluable to me.”
So it had been Connelly who had eavesdropped on their conversation yesterday. By running, Connelly cast even more suspicion upon himself as the killer.
And now Angelica might never be found alive.
“He was also spying on you for your father,” Follett said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your father let it
slip that he knew about me from reports Connelly made to his chief of security. It’s how he knows all about what’s going on with Darryl. Connelly kept him updated on all of you. And me, too. He intended to have me killed when I found out about…”
Follett stopped himself before revealing who Darryl’s true father was. He assumed William didn’t know and he didn’t want to be the one who told him. William, leaning back in his chair with his face red, appeared stung by his secretary’s betrayal.
“Now, please listen,” Follett continued. “Is there a way to reach your father to tell him he must return?”
“And when he asks why, shall I tell him that a demon requests an interview with him?”
“Quite frankly, yes,” Follett said. “Your father is aware of Darryl’s condition and knows the identity of this…individual who has possessed him. He’ll know exactly what you’re talking about.”
“Possessed by an evil spirit…this is just madness.”
“It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe in possession and spirits,” Diana said. “What matters is we get Darryl to stop killing before he is killed himself by the Pinkertons.”
“And remember the monster’s threat,” Follett said. “The people closest to Darryl will be killed if your father doesn’t come.”
“I have no influence over him,” William said with a sigh. “No one ever has. The best I can do is wire him and beg him to help us, but how on earth do you explain this in a telegram?”
“Like this,” Follett said, retrieving his notebook from his breast pocket and scribbling in pencil. “‘Your men are dead STOP. Astogani demands you come to Palm Beach or Darryl and many others will die.’ Simple and to the point.”
William sent the note with the housekeeper to The Breakers’ telegraph office, telling her to wait for a response. There was nothing to do then but wait, and Follett suggested that they should stay together for their personal safety. It was a sunny day, but the house didn’t have an ocean view like the cottage had and it felt gloomy. The waiting was oppressive. Every time there was movement outside, from birds or even swaying palms, all eyes shot to the windows in alarm. William brought out the sherry, but Follett didn’t partake with him.
