The Alchemist in the Attic

by Urias, Antonio

  “Yes.”

  “And not for Valli or Stokes?”

  Staalman hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Is it valuable?”

  “Depends who you ask.”

  Atwood nodded. He had leverage, finally. “What’s inside?” he asked.

  Staalman shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

  After a moment, Atwood barked a laugh. “You don’t know!”

  “Valencourt’s work has interested a number of powerful people, and they want to know what he’s doing.”

  “And the notebook will help?”

  “Perhaps.” Staalman sighed. “As you can see,” he said, waving his hand to encompass his office, “I can afford to pay you a great deal more than the opera singer or the con man.”

  “But can you pay more than their…patrons?” Atwood tasted the word on his tongue, watching Staalman closely for his reaction. He was not disappointed.

  “W-where did you…” Staalman sputtered. “How do you know that word?”

  “From Ms. Peake,” Atwood said. “She called Madame Valli my patron, and I thought it was an odd choice of words.”

  Staalman groaned. “That was very indiscrete of her.”

  “Whereas you have been the soul of discretion.” Atwood smirked. He was enjoying himself for the first time in months. “Relax, doctor. I’m not interested in your little secret society, not yet anyway. I don’t want to kiss the ring or learn the secret signs. I had enough of that with the masons.”

  Dr. Staalman did not appear reassured.

  “I’ll consider your offer,” Atwood said. “But now I think it’s time I saw Collins.”

  “Yes,” Staalman said. “I suppose it is.”

  *

  Staalman led Atwood deeper and deeper into the asylum. Through an open door, Atwood glimpsed a man with an electrical device attached to his forehead, being attended to by an overenthusiastic young doctor who appeared to be enjoying himself immensely. Through another, he saw a row of women with dull eyes, encased in steam, enduring the sauna treatment. Atwood felt Staalman’s eyes on him, but kept his expression studiously neutral. He wouldn’t give the doctor the satisfaction of seeing his true feelings. Atwood had lived his life amidst all manner of squalor, was familiar with degradation in its myriad forms, but this chamber of horrors with its patina of science was something else entirely.

  “I will be joining you for the interview,” Staalman said as they approached the back wing of the house.

  “That was not the arrangement,” Atwood said.

  “My hospital, my rules. I need to care for the health of my patient.”

  “You’re a true saint,” Atwood muttered.

  “Don’t let the sisters hear you say that,” Staalman said.

  Atwood ignored him. “I have already spoken with Collins, you know,” he said.

  “Yes, but that was before. I don’t know what Valencourt did to him exactly, but he’s a changed man—if he is a man anymore, and not a husk.”

  They reached a locked door, flanked by two orderlies.

  “Either I go in with you,” Staalman said firmly, “or this was a colossal waste of both our time.” Atwood sighed. Staalman wasn’t bluffing.

  “Very well,” he said. “If you must.” He had hoped to see Collins alone. There would have been a better chance of getting real answers, though if he was as far gone as Staalman suggested, that might have been a forlorn hope. The door creaked open and Atwood followed Staalman inside.

  Collins was seated in a straight-backed wooden chair. His arms and legs were strapped down, and his head was locked in place by a metal brace. It looked like some ancient medieval torture device, more at home in the Inquisition than in a hospital. He watched Atwood and Staalman closely, unable to move save for his eyes and his fingers, which beat out a nervous rhythm on the arms of the chair. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Atwood sat in front of him in a rickety wooden chair. Staalman loomed behind him, silent but unmistakably present. The uneasy feeling had returned, crawling across Atwood’s skin and itching inside his head, trying to get out. Looking at the gaunt, twitching creature Collins had become was akin to staring at a premonition made flesh, the shape of things to come for him. Atwood had to remind himself that he had dealt with mad men before and not gone mad himself. This was different, though.

  “Good evening, Mr. Collins,” he said.

  Collins’ face twisted and contorted before settling into a rictus grin. “Atwood,” he greeted. “Atwood the liar!”

  “We’re all liars here,” Atwood replied calmly.

  “You lie,” Collins agreed. “And that doctor behind you is made of lies, but I never lie. I’m a good boy.” His grin widened.

  “You lied to me the last time we met,” Atwood said.

  “Did I?” Collins’ voice seemed lost, as if it came from far away.

  “Several times that I noticed, possibly more.”

  “Well,” Collins said after a moment, “that was then, this is now. I’m a new man.”

  Atwood tilted his head ruefully. “You’re definitely…different,” he said, and it was true.

  There was a coy intelligence in Collins’ eyes now, unmasked for all to see. This was the face of the talker inside, not the quiet, careful man on the outside, the clerk with a stifled imagination and a squandered intellect. He had been on the edge last time they spoke; now he was broken and cracked. There was a freeness in that. His tongue was certainly looser and less guarded, but Atwood could still see Valencourt’s strings, and hear his voice in Collins.

  “You don’t understand,” Collins said.

  “Then help me understand,” Atwood implored. They had built a connection before, no matter how tenuous. Hopefully that would be enough.

  “I have seen the truth,” Collins breathed in awed tones.

  “What truth?”

  “His truth.” There was an expression almost of rapture on Collins’ face, rapture tinged with fear. It made Atwood uncomfortable. The itching behind his skin was growing worse, and he could feel Staalman stir behind him, his interest suddenly acute.

  Collins saw it too with his restless, darting eyes, and sneered. “They’re jealous,” he said. “They dress it up in concern all they want, but they’re jealous of him and the Great Work.”

  “They?” Atwood asked, planning to return to the ‘Great Work’ in a moment. “Meaning Staalman and the others?”

  Collins shook his head. “Staalman, Stokes, Valli, they’re all just cat’s paws like me.” He smiled sadly, suddenly lucid. “And like you.”

  “Is that what I am?” Atwood asked, thinking of Swifty. There was still no word from him, and that was starting to gnaw at Atwood, yet another in a pantheon of worries.

  “You know you are, or else you’re lying again.”

  “I’m no one’s pawn.” Atwood leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “Though not for their lack of trying.”

  Collins started to nod, but found his head locked in place. “Have they installed you in my old apartment yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was quick work.” Collins’ eyes flickered to Staalman. “They must be getting desperate.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “I’m not,” Collins said. “Apart from a stiff neck, I’ve never been better.”

  “Now who’s lying?”

  Collins’ expression fell. “They’ve put me next door to a gentleman who believes he’s the second coming of Stonewall Jackson. Every night he shouts troop movements at the top of his lungs for two hours straight.” Collins met Atwood’s gaze, suddenly earnest and steady. “But I haven’t slept this well in months.”

  Atwood shrank back from the understanding on Collins’ face. He felt as if he’d lost a part of himself, as though the very act of understanding was an invasion. That’s why Atwood had tried so hard all his life to keep people guessing, but Collins wasn’t guessing.

  “How are your dreams?” he asked gently, as if Atwood were the patient.

/>   “Dark,” Atwood said. “Full of trees and edges.”

  “Yes. That’s how it starts, the forest and the faces. Then they follow you… Can you hear him at night?”

  “The shrieks? The rumbling, bubbling, boiling sounds of tortured science? Yes,” Atwood admitted. “I can hear him.”

  “It gets inside your head,” Collins said. “You’re made of sterner stuff than I was, but it’s getting to you too. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “And the stain,” Atwood murmured. A spasm passed through him.

  “Yes.” Collins closed his eyes and shuddered. “The stain.”

  “You know what’s causing it, don’t you?” Atwood said gently. “You’ve seen the Great Work.” This was the question he had been dying to ask. The answer they were all waiting for. Behind him, Staalman shifted excitedly.

  Collins opened his mouth once, twice, but no words came out. He jerked back suddenly, wrenching his neck, as he desperately attempted to turn away. The collar dug into his skin, but he didn’t seem to care. He thrashed about, still trying to speak. Atwood caught a few words here and there.

  “I don’t remember,” Collins said over and over. “I mustn’t…I can’t..the Great Work must…be protected…”

  Staalman sighed and stepped forward with a syringe in hand. Atwood rose to stop him, but he was too late. Staalman had already injected Collins. The younger man calmed down almost immediately, and sagged in his chair.

  “What did you do that for?” Atwood demanded. “He was about to tell us…”

  “Nothing,” Staalman said firmly. “You think I haven’t asked him about the Great Work before? This always happens.”

  “Of course he never told you,” Atwood said.

  “And you think he’d share with you?”

  “Maybe.” Atwood shrugged. “I’m not sure, but he sees himself in me.”

  “And you see yourself in him,” Staalman said. “The dreams, the stain. Perhaps you should stay with us a while too, make yourself at home. There would be plenty of time for the two of you to compare notes.”

  “Never.” Atwood narrowed his eyes.

  “Never is a very long time.” Staalman gave Atwood an unkind smile.

  “Not long enough.” They stared at each other, neither backing down. Part of Atwood had been worried about this ever since he’d set foot in the asylum, worried they’d never let him out. Worst of all, he was worried that Staalman was right, no matter his motives.

  “Atwood.” Collins’ voice was feeble, but echoed in the tense silence. “They abandoned me here,” Collins said, when he was sure Atwood was listening. “They’ll abandon you too.”

  Atwood leaned in close and whispered, for Collins’ ears only, “Not if I abandon them first.”

  Collins laughed. It was a pure laugh, sane, utterly devoid of madness, and yet it chilled Atwood to the bone. He left Collins, who was still laughing.

  Staalman locked the door behind them. “I’ll have one of the boys drive you back to the city,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Atwood’s mind was elsewhere.

  “About the notebook,” Staalman said.

  “And why would I give it to you?” Atwood asked. “You practically threatened to have me committed in there.”

  “I was attempting to nurture the connection he felt with you. He feels persecuted.”

  “Because he is being persecuted.”

  “Nonsense. We take care of our own. Valencourt has twisted poor Collins around so much that he’s lost sight of that, but surely you can see it.”

  “If this is you taking care of your own, I want no part of it.”

  “I see.” Staalman sneered. “So you won’t give it to me but you’ll still give it to her.”

  “Who said I was going to do that?” Atwood raised his eyebrows.

  “You didn’t have to. I can see she already has her claws in you like she did Collins.”

  Atwood barked a laugh. “Her claws aren’t that deep, but I do know where I stand with her.”

  “And where is that?”

  “She’s using me as bait.” Atwood shrugged. “I can’t blame her for that, not me of all people. But I don’t know what you’re using me as.”

  Staalman glared.

  “Good evening, Dr. Staalman,” Atwood said firmly. “Perhaps I’ll see you at Professor Stokes’ next little soiree.”

  “If you’re still with us,” Staalman muttered darkly.

  “Oh, I assure you, I will be.”

  Atwood marched down the hallway with as much swagger as he could muster, but it was mostly for show. He was no one’s pawn, not Valli’s, not Valencourt’s, not even Maguire’s, and certainly not Staalman’s. The only one who’d ever been able to pull his strings with impunity was his father, and that man was long dead.

  But Collins was a warning of things to come. Atwood fully intended to heed that warning. Still, as he emerged from the asylum into the chilly evening air, Atwood felt more broken than ever. His thoughts were sharp and slippery, singed with madness. The dreams. How had Collins known about the dreams? It was impossible and yet they had clearly recalled details in common. He could feel them inside him now, tainting his mind, twisting everything.

  He found himself considering ideas he had never imagined: madness spread from person to person, shared dreams, thoughts that were not his own. What was next, ghost and fairies? Alchemy? Even a week ago he would have dismissed such notions out of hand as fantasy and delusion. Perhaps Staalman was right. Perhaps Madame Valli had sunk her claws in deeper than he’d believed, if they even were her claws. Atwood took a deep breath and shook those thoughts away.

  He needed to find Walter. The ground was turning to quicksand beneath him and Walter was the only one Atwood could trust to keep him steady, not Madame Valli, not the inspector. No more occult mumbo jumbo, no more alchemy, just proper solid investigating. He and Walter had started this, and it was time they finished it, before Atwood truly went mad.

  21

  The Bodies

  When Atwood returned to the Oracle building, he found it mostly deserted. The sunlight poured through the window in shafts of sickly gray light. Maguire was not in his office, and most of the other reporters, those that still remained loyal, were out on assignment. It was eerie, standing there alone, surrounded by empty desks. No gossiping, backstabbing reporters, no joking, no laughter. Just the sound of the printers churning and groaning.

  That was where he found Maguire, at last, in the print room with his sleeves rolled up, and his fingers already stained with ink. A stooped, lonely figure, he was dwarfed by the machines around him, doing the typesetting himself, like in the old days. The situation must have been grimmer than Atwood thought.

  Maguire had learned the trade and mastered it, but he had never enjoyed this part of the work. A quick glance around showed that the printing room was nearly as empty as the offices upstairs. At least half the pressmen and compositors were missing. It had happened so gradually that Atwood hadn’t noticed until this moment just how many were gone. Looking down at Maguire methodically preparing the next edition, it occurred to Atwood for the first time that the Oracle might not survive, that despite their efforts, he and Maguire might fail.

  Atwood climbed down the stairs to join him. “Getting your hands dirty, I see.” He tried for levity, but it came out strained.

  “Someone has to,” Maguire replied without turning.

  “I thought circulation was up,” Atwood said.

  “It is. No small thanks to you, but all the other papers have the story now.” He turned his dropping, baleful eye on Atwood. “And between them, Hearst and Young are hiring away our best people. I lost six this week.”

  “Six!” Atwood was appalled. He’d been so wrapped up in the case, he hadn’t realized the extent of the problem. No wonder the offices felt empty. “What can we do?” he asked instead.

  “I’m already doing my part,” Maguire said. “I’ll keep this place running as long as possible, by hook or by croo
k.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Atwood smiled softly, but with genuine warmth. He had faith in Maguire’s abilities.

  After a moment Maguire returned the smile wanly and then pointed an ink-stained finger. “And you?” He asked. “Any progress?”

  “I’m working on it.” Atwood still hadn’t told Maguire about the alchemist, and he’d forced Walter to keep silent as well. It wasn’t time yet. Maguire would push to run the story now, but Atwood wasn’t ready. He still felt uneasy. He was missing whole pieces of the puzzle and that worried him.

  Everyone was pressing in on him, pulling him in too many directions at once. They all thought he owed them something, and they were right, most of them. The problem was that he couldn’t see a way to keep them all happy. He could barely see a way to help himself. Atwood was closer to the story than ever, but somehow the answers were always just out of reach. He was used to the peculiar and the disturbing, but this investigation was taking him to ever stranger places. There were questions everywhere he turned, and few answers. Not knowing was a crawling, twitchy feeling. Atwood hated it. He needed time to think. He needed sleep.

  “I thought you were going to…” Maguire trailed off delicately.

  “I did.” Atwood bit out the words. “The bait is on the hook. My father would have been proud.”

  Maguire looked down at that. “No bites?”

  “Not yet. I haven’t heard a peep.”

  “Then make it up. Unless you already have.” Maguire narrowed his eyes. “And you’re trying to use it as leverage. Hearst and Young would pay a pretty penny.”

  “You know I would never do that.”

  Maguire stared at him incredulously. “You would in a heartbeat,” he said. “You and I have no illusions on that score. We know each other too well.” His lips twitched in a scowl. “Don’t forget, I know exactly what you’re capable of.”

  “Yes.” Atwood smirked. “I suppose you do.” After a moment, however, Atwood shook his head ruefully. “But nothing’s changed. My bridges are well and truly burned. You were there. Hearst will never touch me, not while Selby’s there.”