The Devil's Cauldron

by Michael Wallace

  “Why didn’t you follow up with an email from an anonymous provider?” Wes asked. “Used a different computer?”

  “Once Becca didn’t show up, I knew you were on the case. Didn’t necessarily think this woman would try to kill you, but it all turned out okay in the end, right?”

  “I could have done without surgery, but yeah, I guess so.”

  “Unfortunately,” Davis said, the computer making his voice somber, “there’s this friend of Eric’s who didn’t make it. I feel awful about that.”

  “The only good thing about that is that it put the police firmly on our side. There was no getting around that she’d murdered a Costa Rican national.”

  “And Meggie’s husband?” Becca asked.

  “Better not call him that,” Davis said. “She never agreed to that. Fiancé. Even that word is ugly enough.”

  “Okay, Kaitlyn’s cousin, then,” she said. “Benjamin Potterman. What are the charges?”

  “First degree murder. Or whatever they call it down there. Doesn’t matter that he didn’t actually do the stabbing. Costa Rica doesn’t have the death penalty, but with the confession the two of you extracted, the case looks cut and dried. If something crazy gets him off, though, there are plenty of crimes he committed in the U.S.”

  “Murder is a better charge,” Wes said. “Lock him away where he belongs.”

  “He didn’t tie bad knots at the cave,” Davis said. “According to Meggie, Kaitlyn untied the rope, taunted her, then smashed her fingers with a rock so she’d let go and fall.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Wes said. “He’s still a weasel and a bastard and deserves whatever he gets.”

  “There are a few loose ends,” Becca said. “What about Jerry Usher? Why did he get involved?”

  “Money,” Davis said. “Pure and simple greed. Kaitlyn paid him off. Fifty thousand dollars a year—stolen from her company, naturally—directly into Usher’s bank accounts. And he apparently paid some bribes to officials in the Ministry of Health as well. The Costa Ricans know all about it now.”

  “So he’s going to jail,” Wes said.

  “No. They’re more concerned with their corrupt officials than a foreigner. He’s worked out some sort of plea bargain.”

  “Doesn’t seem fair,” Becca said.

  Davis said, “He’s losing his job. That’s something.”

  “Here’s the thing that bugs me,” Wes said. “Why didn’t Kaitlyn kill Meggie when she had the chance?”

  “She could have done it any time in the past seven years,” Becca said. “Why wait?”

  “I doubt we’ll ever know for sure,” Davis said, “but I’ve been talking to Meggie. There was an incestuous relationship between Kaitlyn and Benjamin. He was completely under her control. And Meggie thinks Benjamin’s brothers were trying to seize control of the company. Somehow, Meggie was a tool.”

  Wes didn’t understand and shook his head.

  “Kaitlyn was just the cousin,” his uncle continued. “Not the side of the family to control the company. But she could control Benjamin. And she worked him over with guilt about sexual acts between cousins, about his role in his wife’s—excuse me, fiancé’s—accident.”

  “And Kaitlyn thought she had to get Meggie out of the way before she married Benjamin,” Becca said. “That would have broken Kaitlyn’s control.”

  “So why didn’t she finish the job?” Wes asked.

  “Who knows?” Davis said. “Maybe all she wanted was to torture a rival.”

  It was a horrible thought. What kind of psychopath would do that?

  They were quiet for a long moment.

  “One final thing,” Becca said at last. “Who sent the anonymous note that put us onto the Meggie Kerr case in the first place?”

  “I wish I had a definitive answer,” Davis said. “I can only guess. Maybe it was one of Benjamin’s brothers. They didn’t otherwise seem concerned with her, and both have claimed they thought she was brain damaged, not suffering LIS. But maybe they knew, and didn’t care, except as a way to get rid of their cousin.”

  “Or maybe it was Benjamin, feeling guilty,” Wes offered.

  “Seems too brave for him,” Becca said. “Even done anonymously. Besides, if Meggie were rescued, his crimes would get out.”

  “Yeah, I guess we’re back to that.”

  “Or maybe it was someone in Costa Rica,” Davis said. “A worker at Colina Nublosa. Someone observant, who had figured things out, but didn’t want to risk his or her job. I don’t know if we’ll ever know for sure. Whoever it was saved Meggie’s life.”

  “How is she doing, anyway?” Wes asked with a glance toward the language lab. The door was closed.

  “Walter said she’s the best patient he’s ever had.”

  Walter Fitzroy was another LIS patient, rescued from his own personal hell in Vanderzee, a care center for wealthy individuals in Upstate New York. Determined to dig out patients like himself, he’d fought his way through the treatment, then pledged his personal fortune to the cause, if they would only let him join the team.

  “The best?” Becca said. “That’s a high compliment. In what way does he mean?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Davis asked. “Better yet, why don’t you ask her?”

  Wes blinked. “What? It’s only been a week. She can talk already?”

  “Nine days, to be exact, but yes. She’s getting there. Come on.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Upon first glance, the lab room held what looked like two people frozen in wheelchairs, surrounded by computers, monitors, and laboratory gear. They were strapped in, heads and bodies restrained and immobile. Cameras focused on their eyeballs. Three cameras in the case of the woman, studying her eyes from all angles while she stared at a large screen. It showed a mixture of letters and common syllables, like a sort of shorthand. Level four already, Wes saw, surprised.

  “Welcome back,” Walter’s computer said. “Sounds like one hell of an adventure. I’m starting to think Costa Rica should be put on a watch list for the State Department or something.”

  He spoke in a deep, authoritative bass, almost like Christopher Lee or James Earl Jones. Before his accident, he said, he’d suffered a rather nasal-sounding tenor. May as well make use of the technology. Why not? If you had to attach a cybernetic arm, you’d make it strong enough to lift a car, wouldn’t you? And if you had to borrow someone else’s voice, you may as well borrow the voice of an Old Testament prophet.

  “It was worth it,” Wes said. He and Becca pulled up chairs where they could be seen by both Meggie and Walter. “But no, not exactly a kick-back-on-the-beach sort of vacation.”

  Davis rolled into the room, but stayed near the door. “Give us what you’ve got.”

  “Ready to show off, Meggie?” Walter asked.

  A moment of hesitation, then lights flashed on the big screen. “Ready.”

  She was cleaned up since that night in the Costa Rican cloud forest, all wet and muddy. Her cornsilk hair was drawn back in braids, and even though her face couldn’t move, a light in her eyes spoke of intelligence.

  “How do you feel?” Walter asked.

  The words came out slowly. “I feel butter . . . better. I feel better, not butter.”

  “You’re sure?” Walter asked in a teasing tone. “You’re not asking for a piece of toast, are you?”

  “Haha. Nervous.”

  “Don’t be nervous,” Becca said. “You’re doing amazing.”

  “It feels good to talk. To be able to share. Thank you. You are heroes. All of you.”

  Her chosen voice was a smooth, charming alto, almost melodic, like an opera singer when she was speaking. Sheesh, no wonder Eric was smitten. Wait until she got the emotion part of the program down; she’d be a killer. Right now, the inflection was slightly off, like a text-to-computer voice program.

  “We’re not heroes,” Becca said. “We’re ordinary people doing our jobs.”

  “You are heroes to me.”
/>   Walter said, “She’s the best patient I’ve worked with. Bright. Fantastic memory. Tell her something once and she’s got it. And a hard worker. We went five hours yesterday. That’s hard brain work, like learning a language or the piano. Heck, I was exhausted. And when I left her alone, she kept practicing on her own.”

  “So much to learn,” Meggie said. “I have wasted enough time. You understand?”

  “Of course we do,” Wes said. “These two more than anyone.” He gestured to Walter and Uncle Davis.

  “Tell me, Meggie,” Davis said. “Would you like to work for the foundation?”

  She tried to answer, but the lights flickering across the board kept missing their marks and something like gibberish came out.

  “Oops,” Walter said. “Try again.”

  “Level three?” she asked. “For one moment.”

  Walter’s eyes flickered and the screen flipped from a bluish tint to green. A simpler pattern of letters and syllables appeared. Back down to level three. Then it shifted blue again.

  “Never mind. I’m not putting your training wheels back on. You’re good with level four. Slow down if you need more time.”

  “Okay.” Meggie seemed to gather herself. “I am handica . . . am paraly . . . alyzed. How do I help?”

  “You’re not the only one,” Walter said. “If you want to join us, we’ll make it happen.”

  “I want to. Badly. But what can I do?”

  “Don’t worry,” Uncle Davis said. “We’ll figure that out. Smart, fast learner—you’re exactly what we need. And we can work around handicaps. That’s what we do.”

  “Does Eric work for you, too?”

  “As much as he can,” Wes answered. “But a lot of it is computer work. Meeting people. It’s not always easy to find him something to do.”

  “Maybe he could be Meggie’s assistant,” Becca said. “She needs plenty of physical help.”

  “Eric himself needs assistance. I don’t think—”

  “Of course he does,” Becca said. “But I’ve got an idea about that, too. What I’m thinking is—”

  “Hold on,” Wes interrupted, before it could go any farther. “Let’s get through Meggie’s rehab first. Then we can worry about arranging an aide and whatnot.”

  “I want to see him,” Meggie said. “May I, please?”

  “In a bit,” he said, maybe a little too quickly. “He’s playing a video game and . . . well, maybe at lunch.”

  It was the first thing Eric asked when they’d arrived at the house. Could he see Meggie? Where was she? What was she doing? Could she talk any better than last time? Wes had a hard time putting him off. Only video games distracted him in the end.

  Wes had hoped to think about the issue before questioning Meggie, but decided this needed more immediate consideration. Probably for the best. Deal with matters sooner, rather than later.

  “Walter,” he said, “could I have a word with Meggie?”

  “Oh?”

  His face didn’t move, but Wes could swear the man was raising an eyebrow, at least mentally.

  “I guess we could cut out early for lunch,” Walter said.

  “I’ll call staff,” Uncle Davis said. “Have them whip up something.”

  The two men wheeled out of the room. The door swung shut behind them, controlled by computer. Wes eyed Becca, still sitting in that peculiar posture common to pregnant women who struggled to support aching backs. Thirty-seven weeks now, and counting.

  “I’ll stay,” she said. “You might need a neutral third party.”

  He started to protest, but Becca’s eyebrows shot straight up. “Okay, but I’m warning you, I might get stubborn about this.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “Meggie,” he said. “Do you know what Eric thinks about you?”

  The screen lit up. “Not for sure. I want to ask him.”

  “I can tell you. He has a serious crush.”

  “Don’t call it a crush,” Becca said. “It infantilizes him.”

  “Infatuation, then. Let’s be realistic about his cognitive abilities.”

  “So he’s disabled. That doesn’t mean he isn’t serious about Meggie. It’s not like your brother jumps from one love interest to another.”

  Wes turned back to Meggie. “So you’re going to ask him how he feels? Let’s say he professes his love like the hero in some romantic comedy. What do you tell him? Thanks, kid!”

  “I tell him . . . ” Meggie stopped. The screen flashed twice, as she got off sync and had to start over. “I tell him that I want to be with him.”

  Becca leaned forward. Her eyes gleamed. “You do?”

  “Hold on,” Wes said. “You know what you’re saying, right?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Meggie said. “I am an adult. I can make my own decisions. Decide what is best for me. I am not afraid of being hurt.”

  “Meggie, I’m not talking about you—I’m talking about my brother. I’m worried about his feelings, not yours.”

  “You are?”

  “Eric is loyal. He’s never had a girlfriend before, but once he does, he won’t let go. I know you’ve been locked in there for seven years. You must have been so lonely.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I can only imagine. I’ve never been there. But it sounds like hell, the stuff of nightmares. The idea of a boyfriend, or someone fawning over you, must be exciting. And he saved your life. That’s got to hit hard.”

  Becca put a hand on his wrist. “Wes.”

  “I need to say it. Now, before it goes too far and someone gets hurt.” He turned back to Meggie. “But you’re out now. True, barring some huge new medical advance, you’ll never walk again, never feed yourself. You won’t be running in the Paralympics. But your mind is free, and that’s what makes us human. If you’re happy and optimistic now, just wait, it gets even better. You’ll be working, you’ll have a purpose. And you’re a smart woman—you’re going to grow tired of my brother. So you’ll break up. That will destroy him. I can’t let you do that.”

  “Let me tell you,” Meggie said.

  “Tell me what?”

  “Please. I am slow. Let me say it all without . . . interrupting. Please.”

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  “I had a lot of time to think. About Benjamin. What I saw in him, why I was with him.” The words came out agonizingly slow, but sure. “So many things that he was, I didn’t want. I never would have wanted them, if I hadn’t been caught up by superficial things like how he looked and how much money he had. And so many things that he wasn’t, I needed. I still need them.”

  As she spoke, her fluency was increasing, sentence by sentence. If this were pure therapy, Wes would flip the computer to level five, force her brain to work harder.

  “Benjamin was a shallow, cowardly person,” Meggie continued. “Eric is neither of those things. He is sincere. He is brave. He is loyal. You have no idea how much that means to me now.”

  “He is also developmentally disabled,” Becca said in a quiet voice. “You are not.”

  “I know. I’ve thought about that, too. If I could, I’d do for his brain the same thing you’re doing for mine. But I can’t. But in the end, the things he doesn’t have, I can live without. The things he does have, I want more than anything.”

  “Eric and I are twins,” Wes said. “When I was being born, he was stuck inside, with an umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. Suffocating.”

  “I understand.”

  “That’s my reality. That’s the part that you need to accept on faith. My health is built on my brother’s brain damage. And I will never stop protecting him.”

  Becca squeezed his hand.

  “But you sent him to help me,” Meggie said. “Even though it was dangerous.”

  “That’s true, I did.”

  “There are some things that are worth the risk.”

  Was she right? It was against everything in Wes’s nature to trust his brother to someone else. And cou
ld a relationship like this even work?

  “I have so many questions,” he said. “What about physically?”

  “My nerves aren’t dead. I can still feel.”

  “Yes, but you can’t move. What are you going to do to reciprocate?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll work that out. Maybe nothing will ever happen—but that’s not your choice to make.”

  “Do you even like the same things he does?”

  “Yes. Cheesy musicals, Disney movies, classic characters like Robin Hood and Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I do. That’s not all I like, but what couple shares everything?”

  “And you find him physically attractive?”

  “Is that so hard to believe? Tell him, Becca.”

  Becca smiled. “He looks like you, Wes. So yeah, he’s kind of cute.”

  “I don’t know,” Wes said. “I still can’t wrap my mind around it.”

  Meggie slowed down again. “All I’m asking is that you give me a chance.”

  Wes looked at Becca. “And you think . . . what?”

  His wife’s eyes were watery. “I hope this isn’t pregnancy hormones, but . . . I say they go for it.”

  “May I see him?” Meggie asked.

  Wes got up without answering. He walked into the hallway, then to the front room. Walter and Davis were talking about a new patient advocacy law in the Netherlands and how it might be a precedent for changes in the United States. He ignored them and walked to the home theater.

  Eric was in there, with a controller in hand. Watson and Holmes stood over the dead body of a werewolf mid-transition. But his Victorian-garbed heroes stood still, waiting for instructions. Eric stared to the side, distracted by something. His brow furrowed and Wes could imagine the engine sputtering in there. Figuring things out in his own, deliberate way.

  What a team they made. Twenty employees, but the core was here in this house. One pregnant woman, two paralyzed people, and adding a third. Eric, with all his cognitive disabilities. God knew Wes had plenty of his own flaws and weaknesses. Yet here they were, saving lives, one at a time.