A Deadly Fortune

by Stacie Murphy

  Andrew stopped in the hallway, his eyes stinging. He closed them and swallowed hard, then turned back toward the main office, determined to salvage something from this wreck of a morning.

  Winslow was still there. He looked up as Andrew entered, and his face tightened, as if he expected Andrew to resume questioning him.

  “Dr. Cavanaugh. Can I help you with something else?”

  “Yes, actually,” Andrew said, in as friendly a tone as he could manage. “I would like to examine some of the patients who have shown a particular set of symptoms. I need some help identifying them.”

  “What symptoms?”

  “Abrupt shifts in mood or behavior. Sudden, deep melancholia. Auditory or visual hallucinations. Bouts of aggression without any apparent trigger. These would have begun to appear in adolescence or young adulthood, at the latest.”

  Winslow frowned. “There are a great many patients with at least some of those symptoms. It might be difficult to put together a list. But…” He walked to one of the desks and opened a folder. “I believe I heard something recently. I try to keep track when patients are moved between wards. I don’t always hear about why—ha! Here it is!” He pointed to an entry, his pride in his accurate record-keeping melting away his earlier stiffness. “There was an incident in one of the wards a few days ago. Three patients moved into isolation. Two of them are younger. Perhaps while I’m looking for others, you might want to examine them?”

  Andrew hesitated for only an instant. “Yes. I’ll do that. Thank you.”

  Five minutes later, Andrew was following Mrs. Brennan, the stout, dull-featured nursing matron, down the noisy hallway of the isolation wing, trying to calm his racing heart. This was why he’d come here.

  Mrs. Brennan came to a stop so suddenly he almost trod on her heels. She glared at him, and he stepped back, straightening his sleeves and trying to look nonchalant. He peered past her into the cell.

  The patient lay on her cot, asleep, it seemed. But when the matron’s heavy keys clanged against the lock, she did not start as if awakened, only rose smoothly to her feet and stood, waiting.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Casey, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  Andrew stepped into the cell and got his first look at her.

  She was tiny. He was not particularly tall, and yet he doubted she would reach much past his shoulder. Young, obviously—she couldn’t have been more than twenty. Painfully thin. Her hair was cropped and ragged beneath her cap. Bruises, purple and swollen, stretched from the side of her pointed chin up over her cheekbone, framing an eye swollen nearly shut. The other regarded him warily.

  Without turning around, he asked, “Why isn’t she in the infirmary, with an injury like that?”

  Mrs. Brennan stepped into the cell, and the patient, who had been studying him as he studied her, snapped her attention to the woman behind him, naked hostility overtaking her face.

  “She’s a troublemaker,” the matron said in a flat tone. “Best to keep her away from the others.”

  Andrew frowned. “That will be all. You may step outside.”

  Mrs. Brennan shot a poisonous glance at the girl but did as Andrew instructed, taking up a place outside the door.

  The girl relaxed a fraction and shifted her eyes back to him. “I am Dr. Cavanaugh,” he said gently. “With your permission, I’d like to examine you.”

  She opened her mouth as if to speak, but in the same breath her gaze moved away from him again and froze. Her eyes widened as they focused on something behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, ready to reprimand Mrs. Brennan for returning. She hadn’t moved.

  “I’m interested in cases such as yours,” he continued in the same tone.

  Her eyes flicked back at him for an instant before returning to the spot behind him. He almost spun to look again but controlled the instinct.

  “I’m not sick,” she said with a bitter laugh, her eyes still not meeting his, “and I very much doubt you’ve ever seen a case such as mine.”

  “I’d like to start by taking your pulse.” Even from where he stood, he could see it beating a rapid tempo at her throat.

  She paused. “Very well.”

  Her gaze never moved from the spot behind him as he stepped forward and took her wrist.

  She gasped as he touched her, and her eyes rolled white. He only just managed to catch her before she crumpled to the floor. Before he could lower her to the cot, even before Mrs. Brennan, watching like a waiting vulture, had taken a step from her place by the door, she recovered. Her face and body were relaxed, nothing like the watchful, tentative demeanor of a moment before.

  She focused on him. And smiled. Recognition—and profound relief—flared in her eyes as her hands clutched at his shoulders.

  “Jamie!” she breathed. “Thank heaven you’re here. You have no idea how awful it’s been.”

  Andrew’s own breath all but froze in his lungs at the sound of her voice. The timbre, the pitch. If he’d closed his eyes, he would have thought Susannah stood in the cell with him.

  His head throbbed as blood rushed to his face. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. His vision grayed.

  He nearly dropped her as she went on, taking no notice of his shock.

  “You have to tell Mother and Father not to make me go back. Make them understand. They’ll listen to you.” Her tone was low, confidential, and heartrendingly familiar. “I’m so glad you’re here. You can tell them. You will, won’t you? I can’t bear the idea of it. That place.” She shuddered. “There’s no need for it. I’m perfectly well now, you know, and if they let me stay, I’m sure I won’t…”

  She trailed off as she seemed to catch sight of the cell, to all appearances for the first time. Her jaw dropped, and she looked up at him in horror. She thrust him away and stumbled backward. He took a half step toward her. She shrank into herself, her hands coming up to ward him off. That, too, was so familiar his chest clenched. She looked around in wild, panting terror, betrayal etched on her features.

  “What… How… How did I…” She choked on a sob. “This isn’t…” She stopped. Her eyes narrowed as they swung back around to focus on him, flashing with sudden fury. “You did this. I don’t know how you did this, but you did. You tricked me,” she said, rage and accusation in her tone, outrage in every line of her face. “Somehow you brought me here, and now— Oh, what did you do? You drugged me, didn’t you? It had to be you. No one else could have. Jamie, I trusted you. I trusted you! But you’re working with them.”

  She sprang at him with a low growl, her hands clawed, fury radiating from her. Too stunned to react, Andrew barely felt it as her fingernails raked the side of his face.

  He stumbled back and got his hands up only as she drew back for another assault. She flung herself at him again, and he caught her, pulling her body into his chest and wrapping his arms around her own, pinning them to her sides. She thrashed and kicked, cursed him with every breath.

  “Use the chloral!” Mrs. Brennan shouted from the doorway. “I’ll call for the restraints.” She disappeared down the hall as the girl slammed her head into his chest.

  Andrew sucked in a wheezing breath. Desperately, instinctively, without thinking, knowing he had to quiet her, he lowered his mouth to her ear and spoke. “Susannah. Susannah, please. You must listen to me.”

  Shocked into immobility by the words he’d spoken, he went as still as she did, his mind scoured of rational thought. The sound of their breathing, ragged and discordant, filled his ears. Her heartbeat against his chest was as rapid as a bird’s. They remained frozen there for a long moment, until she made a little noise, almost a sob.

  The sound nearly drove Andrew to his knees, but it woke him from his stupor. He tried to swallow past a knot in his throat as something hot and terrible bloomed inside his rib cage. The backs of his eyes stung. His head buzzed. He licked his dry lips and set her carefully on her feet. He stepped back, raising his shaking hands more in denial than in defense against another attack.r />
  She turned to face him again, and her eyes were terrified, full of questions. Lost.

  “Jamie?” A tiny voice. She looked around again, down at her hands, slow horror spreading over her face. “These aren’t mine.” Her eyes welled with tears. “She’s here. And I’m not. I’m not here.” A low moan started in her throat. Built. Erupted from her mouth in a howl of despair.

  Unable to stop himself, he stepped toward her again and took her in his arms, rocking her against his chest as she cried. Tears leaked from his own eyes as he struggled to breathe through a fog of disbelief. Of guilt. After a moment she quieted, then reached up with one trembling hand and brushed the hair away from his forehead. The gesture was so tender, so familiar, his heart broke inside his chest, and he had to will himself to breathe.

  As she moved, the scent of the asylum’s harsh soap wafted from her skin and pinned him to the moment. Andrew clung to it like a man anchoring himself against a gale. She stepped back, pulling out of his embrace, and, numb, he forced himself to let her go.

  “It was the voices,” she said in that same small voice, sorrow and regret in every feature. “They were so loud. I had to make them stop. But now I’m not here, and I can’t stay. I’m so sorry. I’m not… I can’t…” She clutched her head, groaning. The muscles of her face twitched, and her hands dropped to her sides. Then her eyes went white again, and this time Andrew did not manage to catch her. She landed on the floor in a heap.

  14

  Andrew all but ran from the cell. He kept his head down, a handkerchief pressed to his bleeding cheek. He was aware of nothing but the roaring in his ears and a desperate need to flee. The nurse at the end of the hall saw his face as he approached and leapt to open the steel door for him.

  He spilled out into the Octagon with a spasm of vertigo, a fissure opening between the Andrew who stood in that too-lovely space and the one still back in that cell. He swerved into a nearby washroom and vomited into the basin. His hands shook as he rinsed his mouth and dampened the handkerchief to dab at his cheek.

  Andrew straightened, and as he looked at his own colorless face in the mirror, an overwhelming urge to leave swept over him. He could go out the doors and straight to the dock. Back to the city. Perhaps even back to Philadelphia. He could apologize to his family, rejoin his practice. Pretend this whole chapter of his life never happened, pretend he’d never seen…

  The hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention. His scalp prickled, and the sheen of sweat coating him went sticky and cold. He shuddered and stepped away from the sink on trembling legs. He strode back to his office, closed the door, and sat down in his creaking chair. He held utterly still, listening to his own hammering heart as it thundered in his ears. This couldn’t be real. Perhaps he’d never woken from last night’s dream after all, and this whole day had been nothing but a construct of his sleeping brain. He looked at his hands, resting on top of his desk. His movements deliberate, he used his right hand to give the flesh on the back of his left hand a vicious pinch.

  Andrew grimaced and sat back in his chair, shaking away the pain. No good. He was awake. He had to get ahold of himself. He wished he were one of those men who kept a bottle in a desk drawer. A stiffening shot of something would be welcome. Perhaps Tyree would—but no. He couldn’t explain this to anyone, didn’t even want to attempt it. At any rate, his legs felt so weak he doubted he could stand back up.

  Andrew reached into his pocket for Susannah’s necklace and placed it on the desk. He stared at it until his eyes swam out of focus. He tipped his head down and closed his eyes, began to count his breaths. He recited every chemical formula he could remember. He listed all the bones in the human skeleton, all the elements of the periodic table. Gradually, he calmed.

  With a final breath, he opened his eyes. “All right, then. Let’s think about this,” Andrew told the empty air. There were those who believed in ghosts and mediums—even some so-called men of science. But he had never been one of them. Such things were not real.

  Susannah was dead. Whatever it was he’d just seen in that cell, it wasn’t his sister. It couldn’t have been. Therefore, this was some sort of hoax. A cruel prank perpetrated by someone who knew of his recent loss. Someone had told her what to say.

  But he could not quite believe it. The chain of events that had led him there, to that cell, to that woman, at that time, had been so implausible. He could count on one hand the number of people who knew the full story of Susannah’s death. And none of them would have told it, not for anything. The more he considered it, the more certain he became that no one could have orchestrated that encounter. Someone might have told the woman what to say, but how could she have known how to pitch her voice to sound like Susannah’s? How to hold her body? And Susannah was the only one who’d ever called him Jamie.

  The thought started his heart racing again before he squelched the feeling. He was a scientist. There was a rational explanation. He just had to find it.

  Andrew wandered through the rest of the day in a fog. When he left the island that evening, he went directly to the nearest telegraph office, where—for an exorbitant fee—he made a long-distance telephone call.

  “Philadelphia, please.” He gave the clerk the number. It was late, but he suspected Dr. Lindman would still be in his office.

  He was.

  “Andrew, my boy,” he said, his Dutch accent pronounced. “How is life among the madwomen? Are you ready to come back home yet?”

  “I understood you’d already taken on another physician.” The shadow of a smile crossed his face at the fondness in the man’s tone.

  “I have.” The gruff voice softened. “I understood your desire to leave. Entirely natural that you would need some time. But if you’re ready to come back…” The old man cleared his throat. “Well, you will always be welcome.”

  Andrew swallowed past the lump in his own throat and took a breath. “I must ask you something. And please forgive the implication. Did you speak to anyone here about the… the details of my situation?”

  “Certainly not,” Lindman replied, a hint of reproof in his voice. “You told me in confidence. I would never betray such a trust.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I’ve said nothing of it, to anyone. I would not speak of such a personal thing, even if asked. And no one has. Your Dr. Harcourt called to confirm my letter of reference. He wanted to know my opinion of your medical skills, and if I believed you to be of generally sound character.” Lindman chuckled. “Although I got the impression he would have welcomed you even if I had said you were a drunkard and degenerate.” He sobered. “Now, what’s all this about?”

  Andrew hesitated. “I’ve begun to wonder if perhaps the story did not follow me here.”

  The response was immediate. “I don’t see how it could have. Whatever your feelings toward your parents right now, your father did a very thorough job of suppressing the details. I’ve heard no talk at all of it here, beyond sympathetic murmurs. I can’t imagine anyone in New York could know.” Lindman’s tone turned paternal. “Now, I must ask, have you spoken to them? Your parents?”

  “No,” Andrew said shortly, “and I would appreciate it if you did not mention my call.”

  “If it is what you want, my boy, I’ll not say anything. But I wish you would reconsider—”

  Andrew interrupted before he could be reminded of his filial obligations. “Dr. Lindman, I must go.” He hesitated. “Thank you. It was good to speak to you.”

  The older man sighed as he ended the call, and Andrew felt a flash of regret for the life he’d given up. But it hadn’t been a choice. That life ended with one early-morning knock at his bedroom door.

  He shook off the memory and handed over a palmful of coins to the hovering clerk. Andrew walked out of the telegraph office into a thick, misting rain and headed toward his rooms in brooding silence. Dr. Lindman’s denial rang true. And his parents, who’d gone to extraordinary lengths to suppress the story, would have
died rather than see it spread about.

  But an asylum patient channeling Susannah’s spirit was impossible.

  Therefore, it was a trick, and someone was responsible.

  Each time he came to that conclusion, the treacherous voice in his mind whispered to him again, and he saw the recognition flaring in the girl’s eyes, and he wondered, and cursed himself for a fool.

  The rain grew worse as he walked. The streets emptied. He could have flagged a cab, but the weather and the solitude suited his mood. Sherlock Holmes said that when one had eliminated the impossible, one must accept the improbable. But what to do when there seemed to be only impossibilities? Two unfathomable options bounced like rubber balls inside his skull.

  Andrew looked up to find himself outside the saloon a block from his lodging house. Warm light and merry babble spilled into the street as he stood there being pelted by cold water. With a muttered oath, he pushed open the doors and went in.

  15

  Amelia lay on her cot with her eyes closed, as uncomfortable as she’d ever been in her life. Her arms, pinioned by the heavy canvas sleeves of the straitjacket, had long since gone numb. The ache in her shoulders, however, went bone-deep. The straps squeezed her torso, pulled far too tight and fastened by heavy metal buckles at the middle of her back. The injection they’d given her before they put the straitjacket on her, much as she hated them for it, was the only reason she’d slept at all. Even now, it clung to her mind like mist, blurring the edges of her thoughts and lending an otherworldly air to everything around her.

  One thought was clear: it had happened again. Not quite as it had in the park, but near enough. She remembered the doctor—Cavanaugh, she thought she’d heard—coming into the cell. She remembered Mrs. Brennan leaving. And then as he spoke to her, the silvery mist had gathered behind him and taken shape. He touched her, and it surged over her.

  And the next thing she knew, she was lying on her cot and the cell was full of people. Cavanaugh was still there, pale and shaken and holding a blood-spotted handkerchief against his cheek. Mrs. Brennan was behind him, and two orderlies were in the doorway, one holding a syringe and the other a bundle of white canvas, straps trailing down.