The Jekyll Revelation

by Robert Masello

  She stopped the car as close to the main gate as she could get it, but a chain was drawn across the driveway to impede people from doing what she was doing. She’d have to drag that trunk at least fifteen or twenty yards. Leaving the headlights on, she got out, putting a hand on Tripod to keep him from following her. “Stay.”

  But the minute she popped the hatchback open, he managed to scramble over the seats and jump out, landing with a splat on the dirt.

  “What’d I tell you?” she said.

  The trunk was at an odd angle, so she had to tug at it, this way and that, before she could get it to the edge. Damn—maybe she should have let Rafe come along, especially as the place was a hell of a lot eerier than she’d remembered. She’d only been there a few times, and always during the day. Night, it turned out, was a completely different scene.

  “Watch out,” she said to the dog, as she yanked the trunk over the edge of the hatchback door and it crashed onto the dirt, narrowly missing her toes.

  Now what? she thought. She tried pulling it, but it was so bulky she couldn’t get a good-enough grip, and it barely budged. Instead, she got behind it and started to push. Her goal had been to leave it right beside the main gate—it was the least, as a good citizen, that she could do—but the more she pushed it, the heavier it seemed to get. It was as if the thing exerted a gravitational pull of its own. Okay, she thought, if she could just get it over the speed bump in the road—again, she had to wonder, were people racing to get into the dump?—and push it to one side, she could abandon it there and no one would be the wiser.

  That was when Trip let out a yelp.

  She ignored it, but when it came again, and she saw his ears stand up, she said, “What?” And looked around. “What’s the problem?” She just hoped it wasn’t a night watchman about to catch her in the act.

  But she didn’t see anything, and figured with another minute or two of struggle, she’d have the trunk over the speed bump and safely out of the way; she just had to be careful not to pull it too far to the side, or it would fall into the ditch that ran along the side of the road. She could make out the rusted remains of a washing machine down there.

  Trip barked—“Shh!” she said—and then barked again, this time running straight for the gate. “Stop it!” she hissed. “What are you doing?”

  If there was a night watchman, he was sure to be awake now.

  With one mighty shove, she got the trunk over the bump, and with a couple more, she had it out of the driveway. Good enough, she thought. All she wanted was to get the hell out of there.

  Trip, hobbling back and forth across the front fence of the dump, was barking madly. It was astonishing how fast he could go on only three legs.

  “Trip! Get back here!”

  But he paid no attention at all. He was in a frenzy. Maybe he smelled a skunk; that was all she needed. Getting that stink off him, which she’d had to do more than once already, was a major hassle.

  She went back to the car, got the leash out of the open hatchback, then slammed it shut. No need to be quiet now. Trip was making enough noise to wake the dead.

  “Come here!” she said sternly, as she approached the gate. “Right now!”

  Trip set his feet, head down, and stared through the iron bars, growling.

  “Whatever it is, let it alone,” she said, bending down to attach the leash to his collar.

  But he kept squirming and she couldn’t get hold of his collar.

  Which was when she saw the other eyes—still and unblinking, a dull yellow in the faint glow of the headlights—staring right back. And heard the low, menacing growl.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said, backing away. “Trip, get out of there!”

  The dog didn’t budge, but the other animal did. She saw a blur of black and gray tear off to her left. Was it a junkyard dog? If it was, it wasn’t like any dog she’d ever seen.

  Trip was scrabbling frantically at the dirt below the gate, as if he could burrow under the fence. Her dog was crazy—she’d always known that—but they had to get out of there, now. If that wasn’t a dog on the other side, it was something even worse—a coyote, or a pack of them.

  Oh, how she wished she’d invited Rafe along on this misguided mission. He’d know just what to do.

  She made a grab for Trip, snagging her fingers under his collar and lifting him up off the ground. He bucked around in her arms, trying to get loose, but she held him tight and ran back to the car. Throwing open the driver-side door, she tossed him in so hard he slid all the way across the opposite seat and down onto the floor under the dashboard.

  “And stay there!” she ordered, leaping in and turning the ignition.

  She wanted to gun it, but there wasn’t enough room to turn around, so she had to back up. With one arm slung over the back of the seat, she drove the Subaru away from the gates, looking for a spot that might be wide enough to allow her to do a three-point turn, but there wasn’t any. That damn ditch seemed to run the length of the driveway.

  Trip had managed, despite his orders, to clamber back up onto the seat, and it was his barking that alerted her again. She slowed down and turned her head just in time to see something dark and powerful charging toward them. Trip had his head out the window now, yowling wildly at the creature that seemed to be aiming for that side of the car. She blasted her horn with the flat of her hand, and slapped on her brights. In the bluish glare, she saw what was either the biggest coyote that had ever lived . . . or a slavering wolf.

  She hit the gas harder, squeezing the wheel with one hand, but the animal was closing in on them fast. If only she dared to go faster. She hit the button to raise the window, but like so much else in the car, it had stopped working right years ago. She had to toggle it back and forth several times before she heard the hum of the glass going up. Trip was nearly decapitated, but pulled his head back just as she felt a bump against the window and saw a furious flash of white teeth and black fur. The animal had taken a last leap at its prey, then tumbled off to the side.

  She kept the car swerving backward, terrified that she would run off the road and into the ditch, and only breathed a sigh of relief when she’d bypassed all the recycling site signs and could safely turn the car around and hit the main road back. Her hands were shaking, and she realized that she probably hadn’t taken a full breath in minutes.

  Trip settled down again, almost as if nothing had just happened. Dogs were amazing that way.

  She let out a sigh, then inhaled a deep breath of the cool night air, scented with eucalyptus and sage, attempting to calm herself. She tried to focus on her respiration, the way her yoga teachers had always taught. Inhale . . . hold it . . . exhale slowly. But what the hell had just happened? What on earth had she just seen? Wolves didn’t live in the canyon. She might have doubted her senses if it weren’t for the spittle still clinging to the other window, or the scratches on the glass.

  The one thing she did know was that she was, finally, rid of that trunk. Even up to the last minute, it had brought her nothing but bad luck.

  30 September, 1888

  As I unfurled my umbrella in the alleyway, I thought that I should really have insisted on sharing Mansfield’s coach. It was late, and it wouldn’t be easy to get another, especially in this weather. Already I could feel the damp seeping into my lungs.

  But standing about would only prolong the ordeal, so I set out for home, hoping to hail a cab somewhere along the way. I squashed my hat down firmly, pulled my head like a turtle into my upturned collar, and with some reluctance, left the shelter of the Lyceum and the electric lights of the theatre district. Now the old gas lamps, unevenly spaced and casting their warmer but more uneven glow, were all that I had to light my way. I had written a plea on their behalf—Desmond, I remembered, had commented on it when we first met in Davos—and I went now, swimming from one pool of light to the next, down the street, or around the corner. In doorways, an occasional body huddled or snored, on the avenues, a wagon, drawn by a haggard hors
e, trundled along like a tumbril carrying its doomed cargo to the guillotine in France.

  A cough rose up in my chest like a hot bubble, and I stopped to press my handkerchief to my mouth. Before I could remove it, another cough racked me, and I had to lean in against a shop door to let it pass. I knew the symptoms well enough by now, and knew that I must find a carriage, get out of the rain and home again, soon.

  Keeping close to the darkened buildings to get what protection I could, I walked along the Strand, a busier thoroughfare where my chances of finding a conveyance would be better, and towards Hyde Park. But to get there meant threading a labyrinth of smaller streets—London is a maze, even to its natives—and as I walked along these, my footsteps echoing on the wet pavement, I became aware of something—a sense that I was not alone—and I stopped, tilted my umbrella so as to look behind me, and waited for the other person to present himself.

  But no one was there.

  Putting it down to fancy, I huddled under the umbrella and went on, though the discomfort in my chest was growing worse by the minute. I began to amend my plan. Henley’s home was on the way to my own, and if I had no luck finding a cab, then it might be wise to make the short detour and spend the rest of the night there. Arriving at someone’s door at such an hour would be incontestably rude, but with Henley it would not present a problem. The man has as much trouble sleeping as I do—the pain from his phantom limb a companion to my own weakened lungs—and he often burns the midnight oil till dawn.

  The high, light trot of a carriage horse came to me, though it was not clear from what direction. I paused long enough to make a determination, and hurried down to the corner, where indeed I saw it coming along at a brisk pace. I waved my umbrella and shouted to the driver as it whirled by, but in its back window I spied a woman squealing with pleasure and batting at someone with a fan.

  The sudden exertion had taken its toll, however—my heart beating fast and my chest aching. The rain was coming down harder than ever, and across the square, I spotted a costermonger’s arcade with empty fruit and vegetable stalls. It would have to do for my present purposes.

  Stepping inside only so far as to ensure my privacy, I fumbled in the breast pocket of my coat and withdrew the tiny vial of the elixir that I carried with me always, in preparation for just such an emergency as this. I had never had to use it before under such circumstances, and hesitated even now, but the alternative was to double over in a paroxysm of pain. The coughing began again, and if I were to haemorrhage here, my obituary would note that the famous author of “Jekyll and Hyde” had died alone, under mysterious circumstances, beneath a vacant cabbage stand. I pulled the stopper with shaking fingers and put it to my lips; the taste was vile, but welcome, burning my throat as it went down. It quelled the cough, and soon I was taking the first unlaboured breaths I had enjoyed for some time. I took another sip, emptying the vial. The flask at home was nearly empty, too, and I had wondered, before filling this vial, if it was not somehow evaporating. I would need another shipment from Dr Rüedi soon.

  ‘You wouldn’t have a drop of that to spare, now, would you?’ I heard from the shadows at the back of the stall, and I whipped around to see what I had at first mistaken for a bundle of rags rising up and teetering towards me. Her hands were extended, shiny but worthless rings on every finger, her hair a rat’s nest. ‘Not that I wouldn’t make it worth your while.’

  I backed away, stumbling, only then aware that my coat seemed to be hanging lower on my frame, my trousers looser.

  Coming closer, but so unsteadily I feared she might tumble straight into me, she said, ‘What would the gentleman say to a four-penny trembler? Just the thing on a rainy night like this.’

  I put out a hand to hold her at bay, and even in the gloom I could see that my skin had acquired a more dusky hue. The nails were longer and sharper, the fingers crooked.

  ‘The best you ever had, I can promise you that.’

  I had to shove her back, but undiscouraged, she staggered forward again. ‘Now, don’t be like that. You’re dressed like a gent, so act like one.’

  I did not feel like a gent. In my breast, I felt a surging anger. I did not want her, and I did not wish to be pawed.

  ‘Give a girl a try.’

  And a laugh burst from my lips—a cruel one. A girl? This hag?

  ‘What you laughing at?’ she said, suddenly angered herself. ‘You think you’re too good for the likes of me?’

  She came at me again, snatching at the vial, and I swatted her aside, hard, with the back of my hand. She rocked onto her heels, banging up against a stall. Pressing a hand to her wounded mouth, she said, ‘For all them fine clothes, you’re a right bastard, ain’t you?’

  ‘That I am,’ I said, my voice—raspy and low—startling even me. ‘Don’t try me.’

  At that moment I saw a grim realization dawn in her eyes, the anger giving way to terror. It was as if I could read the thought—Jack the Ripper—travelling through her mind. Frantically, she looked around for an avenue of escape, and God help me, a smile came to my lips. This was a kind of power—the power to instil abject fear—I had never experienced before, and I was surprised at how subtly and swiftly it had invaded my very sinews.

  ‘Get out of my way!’ she screamed, and I said, ‘Now, what about that trembler?’

  Letting out a shriek that reverberated around the brick walls of the arcade, she ran straight at me, arms out and shoving me, with a strength born of utter panic, out of her path. I fell back a few steps, and she was out into the rainy street, still screaming and running with her skirts held high for all she was worth. The sight, I’ll admit, filled me with an uncommon mirth.

  Mirth cut short by the figure of a man, in a loden coat, stepping into the shelter. A policeman? I was really in no condition to entertain such a person, but before I could even begin to make my case, he said, ‘Herr Stevenson?’

  Herr? This was no member of the constabulary. ‘Who wants to know?’

  That was when I saw, partly hidden by the sleeve of the thick green coat, the dull gleam of the knife.

  TOPANGA CANYON—CALIFORNIA

  Present Day

  Rafe sat in a rocking chair on the porch, like a marshal in some old western guarding the jailhouse from a lynch mob, while Laszlo barged around in the apartment above the store, gathering his stuff. Every few seconds Rafe heard him let out a curse, or kick something across a room, and at one point, a beer bottle came flying out the front window and landed, with the tinkle of breaking glass and an explosion of foam, on the gravel.

  Best to just let him work off steam, Rafe thought. Once Laszlo was gone, he would advise Miranda to change the locks and even put in a decent security system. She’d resist—she liked to think she lived in some enchanted valley—but Rafe knew better. It wasn’t just fences, but bars in the windows, that made for better neighbors.

  The screen door finally was kicked open, and Laszlo waddled out with a pair of bulging leather saddlebags slung around his neck like a poncho, and a black Hefty bag crammed with clothes and whatnot stuffed in his arms. How he was going to drive his little scooter with all that baggage eluded Rafe, but then, that wasn’t his problem. If he drove off a cliff, Rafe would shed no tears.

  “Tell that bitch she can keep anything I’ve left,” Laszlo said.

  “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear it.”

  “Oh, and just in case you think you’re going to be the one fucking her from now on,” he said as he righted his Vespa and climbed aboard, positioning the garbage bag on his lap and reaching around it to grab the handlebars, “she’s a lousy lay.”

  Then he kicked the bike into gear, made a slow and wobbly circle toward the road, and took off. Rafe waited until his taillight and the rattle of his engine had been completely swallowed up by the night before allowing himself to believe it was true. Laszlo was gone.

  Once Miranda got back safe and sound, all would be right with the world. He checked his cell phone for the time—she’d been
gone almost a half hour—and unless she’d run into some problem, she should be back pretty soon. He went into the store, found a broom and dustpan, and came back out to sweep up the broken shards of glass. He didn’t go upstairs to check on whatever damage Laszlo might have done—it would have felt like intruding on her privacy—but headed back to his trailer instead.

  He’d seen enough drama for one day.

  He took a quick shower—the water hookup in the yard supplied only so much at one time—then flopped onto his bunk in a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt. In his hands, he held the journal, but with a kind of reverence now that he had not initially felt. He hadn’t known at first whose initials they were—RLS—nor had he known who Louis or Fanny were. But then he’d read and deciphered more of the text, put it all together, and discovered that the author of the book was none other than Robert Louis Stevenson. The man whose books, like Treasure Island and Kidnapped and The Master of Ballantrae, he’d devoured as a boy. That he should now be holding in his hands a journal that Stevenson himself had written was beyond miraculous to him.

  As was its origin. How in God’s name could a private journal written by a Scotsman who lived in England well over a century ago wind up in a trunk at the bottom of a lake in Topanga Canyon?

  Reading the book was slow going—the ink had faded almost to the point of disappearing here and there, and he had to turn the pages with great care or they would shred and fall away from the binding. Stevenson’s handwriting was very peculiar, too—angular and slanted, with a lot of what looked like hasty pen marks, swipes, and blottings. Rafe had read all the entries from the Belvédère clinic in Switzerland, and he had been especially moved by the author’s attempts to protect the wolf he called Lord Grey from the cruelties of Yannick. On that score, he felt a real allegiance with Stevenson.

  So it had been a hard call to watch Miranda driving off to the dump with what might have been his clothes, without saying anything to stop her. But how could he, without giving away what he knew from the journal? The book didn’t belong to him, and he knew that; it belonged, ultimately, to the Land Management Office of the state of California. One day he’d have to give it up. But that day hadn’t come yet; for now, he felt like he was in possession of something truly rare and special, something that in some weird, cosmic way (and Miranda would certainly approve of that cosmic argument) had come to him for a reason. The stories about the elixir made from wolf blood only confirmed it. He felt his own kinship with the coyotes—with any animal, for that matter, that had to struggle for its survival in a hostile world. He wouldn’t keep the book forever; one day, when he had finished reading it, when he had learned all that there was to learn from it—and he had already learned a great deal about such varied things as Swiss clinics and nineteenth-century manners—he would let it go. There might or might not be some historical value in the musty old clothes that gave Miranda the creeps, but the journal, that was different.