by Cathy Pegau
Michael retrieved a galvanized bucket from the corner and arranged the tarp to funnel into it to catch fluids. He took up a shiny scalpel from the tray, gave Charlotte a quick check, then returned to the body. His brow furrowed with determination. “I’ve made a Y incision from under each armpit, meeting below the sternum, down around the umbilicus, then to the top of the pubis.”
Charlotte tried to write without thinking about what the words meant, without connecting them to the procedure. She had to distance herself, as Michael had. Later, when she transcribed the coded marks of her shorthand, she hoped she could retain that distance.
“Heart and lungs appear normal,” Michael said. “Stomach and intestines slightly enlarged. On the left, rib three is cracked and ribs four and five are broken. Ribs four and five on the right are cracked.” There was a pause and the squelch of scissors on something thicker and wetter. “Stomach contents are not identifiable, so she’d eaten several hours before her death. I’ll collect them to test for poisons, just to be sure.”
He took a specimen jar and spoon from the counter. Charlotte looked over her handwriting until he was finished filling the jar and set it back on the counter.
“Spleen has been ruptured, and there is blood within the abdominal cavity, as expected. Pancreas and liver swollen. The reproductive organs appear discolored. One ovary is ruptured; the other appears bruised. The womb is dark and distended.” More wet scissor sounds. “I’m dissecting the womb to determine its condition. Quite a bit of blood and—Oh, my God!”
Charlotte spun around and peered over his shoulder. Dark blood and pale pink and gray tissue were their own sort of horror, but what Michael held in his hand made her knees watery and her lower body cramp. A two-inch-long gray, curled form stood out against the palm of his black glove.
“She was pregnant.”
Chapter 4
The room tilted and blurred. Charlotte felt herself sway and automatically reached out to steady herself on the nearest object: the exam table. The sudden realization she was about to touch Darcy made her jerk back, only increasing her disorientation.
“Are you all right?” Michael started to grab for her, but immediately withdrew his gore-slick hand.
Charlotte waved him off, not trusting herself to speak without vomiting. The image of what he’d held burned into her brain. She collapsed onto the chair, bent forward with arms crossed over her knees and forehead resting on them. Her skin felt clammy through her cotton blouse sleeve.
Swallowing to keep her stomach contents down, she heard Michael moving around with some urgency, muttering. The wet peeling sound was probably his gloves coming off. The squeal of an opening cabinet. The soft snap of cloth. His footsteps faded into his living quarters, and Charlotte heard the squeak of the pump handle and splashing water. He returned, his warm hand on her shoulder.
“Drink.”
Charlotte straightened and drew in slow, even breaths. Michael stood beside her, blocking her view of the table, an enameled mug in hand. She wrapped her shaking hands around his and brought the cup to her lips. Michael’s steady hold kept the water from splashing out. Something stronger would have been preferred, but the water helped. The roiling of her stomach subsided to a quiver after several sips.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’d be so squeamish.”
“You did better than I did my first time at an autopsy.” His mouth quirked into a sympathetic grin beneath his moustache. “Barely got through the Y incision before I passed out cold.”
The weak smile she managed faltered when Charlotte caught a glimpse of Darcy’s now-shrouded body behind him. She looked down into the mug and swallowed hard. “I remember you becoming ill when I gashed my forehead falling off the swing in the yard. Always wondered how you’d manage being a doctor.”
“I guess my desire to heal overcame my nausea after a while.” He gently tugged a loose lock of her hair. “Maybe having you bang yourself up all the time helped too.”
She chuckled and nodded. Charlotte had rarely been without some bump, bruise, or laceration, but the head wound had been positively gruesome, if not deep. Between her history of childhood injuries and the aftermath of her procedure, she thought she’d be used to blood by now.
But it wasn’t the blood, she realized, so much as Darcy’s situation. Surely the girl had known she was pregnant.
“You were her doctor. Didn’t you know?”
Michael’s lips pressed together, and he looked pained again as he shook his head. “I haven’t conducted a full exam on her for a couple of months. Mostly just quick visits and a few swabs to test for syphilis and other diseases. She’d said everything was fine with her menses.”
“So she lied to you.”
“Probably.” Michael let Charlotte hold the mug. “It’s possible she didn’t know for sure. But more likely she lied and tried to hide it from me. She might have been afraid of being let go from Brigit’s. Babies aren’t particularly good for that business.”
Charlotte drank the last of the water, then set the mug on the counter. “What would she have done once the baby arrived? How would they have made do?”
“If she’d kept it and Brigit didn’t want her around? Server at one of the cafés or clubs. Laundress. She could have found something.” His gaze focused elsewhere as he became lost in thought. After a moment he shook off whatever he’d been considering and met her eyes. “I can finish up the rest of the examination and report. Go lie down for a bit.”
She straightened in the chair and picked up the pen. “No, I’ll be all right.” He started to protest, but she held up a hand. “Honest. It was a bit of a shock, but I’m fine.”
Liar.
She knew exactly what the dead girl on the table had gone through. Passing off morning sickness as a bit of a cold or a bout with bad food. Explaining away tiredness as having stayed up too late or working too hard. Secrets to be kept, hidden away from friends and family until a solution could be found.
Michael nodded, his expression one of sorrow. “All right, stay. But keep your back to the table and let me know if you need to stop.”
Her stomach threatened to rebel again. Charlotte pasted as much of a smile onto her face as she could and held up three fingers. “I will. Scout’s honor.”
The remaining details of Darcy’s autopsy were far less jarring, though it would have taken quite a revelation to top what Michael had already discovered. Charlotte concentrated on taking notes rather than on what the words meant. Still, the ache in her stomach migrated into her head. By the time the autopsy was finished, it felt as if someone were squeezing her temples inward, trying to get them to meet within her skull.
Michael touched her shoulder, making her jump. Gently, he took the pen out of her hand. “Go into my room and rest. I’ll fetch the undertaker.”
Charlotte nodded. Deliberately ignoring the table, she entered his living area and pushed the door closed. It didn’t latch, leaving a gap like the one she’d spied through earlier that morning. Not that it mattered. She had no intention of watching the undertaker removing the body.
She lay down on Michael’s bed, wishing she’d asked him for some aspirin or bicarbonate of soda. With her hands and brain no longer occupied by concentrating on dictation, Charlotte couldn’t force the thoughts and images out of her head.
Though she’d seen other murder and assault victims, she didn’t recall being so affected by them. She was supposed to be a tough New York journalist, one who’d waded into the fray at more than a few protests.
But it wasn’t the blood and bruises that had turned her stomach. It was the obvious rage of Darcy’s murderer. The merciless blows meant to kill, meant to convey how the person felt. Pregnancy—particularly one that was unplanned or unwanted—stirred up strong emotions. Darcy’s had clearly sent someone over the edge.
Sudden tears burned Charlotte’s eyes and closed her throat. She curled into a ball, arms wrapped around her middle. Unexpected news like that could even change a lover i
nto someone you hardly recognized.
Like Richard.
He’d been as shocked as she was after her doctor’s visit confirmed what she’d suspected. Dreaded. They’d been using birth control, but even Margaret Sanger had stated that nothing was 100 percent guaranteed. Charlotte’s immediate reaction upon learning her condition was that she didn’t want a child. Not yet, anyway. But when she told Richard her plans to seek an abortion, he’d been furious.
Abortions were for poor, desperate women or prostitutes. Not for women of their social standing. She would marry him, he’d said, and have the baby.
Charlotte had considered it for a few seconds, half a breath from accepting, until he continued. “After the baby’s born, you’ll stay home, of course.”
She would become the wife and mother he’d need to maintain his family’s standing in the business community. No outside pursuits like a career to distract her from her real duties.
Charlotte had been stunned into silence. He’d been a staunch supporter of her efforts to tell important stories about women’s rights and equality until then. At least while they were attending lectures and dances, or as they fell into bed pulling at each other’s clothes. Equality was fine for everyone except whomever he married.
The bastard. The lying, self-centered bastard. How had she not seen the truth of him?
But it was the truth within herself that caused her the most anguish.
The outer door squealed open, interrupting her thoughts. Heavy footsteps and the rattle of the door closing again followed.
“I’ve cleaned her up as best I could.” Michael’s voice carried in from the exam room.
A pang of guilt went through Charlotte, shaking her out of her bout of shame. She was supposed to have helped him, but she couldn’t bear to see Darcy Dugan again.
Another man replied, his tone too low for her to catch the words. Wood clattered on the floor. A third man asked if Michael had an extra sheet or tarp.
Charlotte listened as the men prepared Darcy for the undertaker, her limbs locked. She’d withstood the chaos of marches and counterprotests. She’d pulled a man off a woman old enough to be his mother as he assaulted her because he didn’t agree with her views. She’d recorded interviews with women who had bruises and broken bones, women who had seen friends hurt because they wanted equality with men.
Damn it, she should be tougher than this.
“Put ’er on the stretcher, Jimmy.” Feet shuffled. “We’ll get somethin’ from Miss Brigit. The missus’ll fix her up right pretty.”
“Thank you, John,” Michael said. “And no talking to Toliver or allowing pictures. This is still an open investigation. Eddington and Blaine will have your hide.”
“Learnt my lesson last time, Doc. Okay, move ’er out, Jimmy.”
Two sets of heavy footsteps retreated from the exam room. The front door slammed closed, rattling the log cabin. Charlotte heard Michael move about, cleaning up by the sound of the clattering instruments, cupboard doors closing, and sweeping.
Charlotte closed her eyes, pushing memories out of her head. Maybe she could help Darcy some other way. Her desire to help Michael and the deputy find who had killed a young prostitute was now a quest to seek justice for a kindred soul of sorts.
“Sis.”
Charlotte startled and her eyes flew open. Her face felt hot. Michael crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed.
“You all right?” He brushed a strand of damp hair off her forehead.
She pushed herself up into a sitting position. “I’m fine.”
His brow furrowed.
Charlotte dropped her gaze and nudged him so she could swing her legs off the bed. “It’s fine. Just a temporary shock.”
More lies. There was nothing temporary about the guilt and sadness that dwelled within her; they were always there, waiting for an opportunity to reappear. It had been several months since she had woken up shaking, if not crying, after one terrible dream or another. Now those dreams would surely return for the next few weeks.
Charlotte and Michael both stood, and she busied herself with straightening her clothes so she wouldn’t have to look at him. She grabbed her coat from the chair where she’d left it earlier. Michael helped her slip it on.
“Maybe you shouldn’t go to the party tonight,” he said, sounding a lot like their father.
Charlotte cocked her head, confused. “Party?”
“The mayor’s gala. You can stay here, if you’d like.”
That party. He meant well, but there was no way she would stay in his room with the constant reminder of the day’s trauma just beyond the door.
“No, I think a party is exactly what I need.” He looked skeptical. Not a surprise. Charlotte pecked him on the cheek. “I’ll go back to my room and freshen up.”
He followed her through the exam room, where she avoided looking at the table, and to the front door. “Are you sure?”
“The distraction will do me good.” She put as much of a smile on her face as she could muster. “Seven o’clock?”
“I’m supposed to escort Ruth from her house. Can you meet us at the Windsor?”
Charlotte’s jaw muscles tightened, fixing the grin on her face. Of course he’d have to escort his fiancée. What else should she expect? “I’ll do that.”
Michael reached past her to open the door. Watery sunlight dappled the stone step and street beyond. “See you there, but if you don’t feel like it later, don’t worry. It’s completely understandable.”
Charlotte walked the three blocks to Sullivan’s without speaking to anyone. Folks went about their business, allowing her to hurry past as if invisible. That suited her just fine. There was no way anyone in Cordova knew what she’d been through. Not today, not last year. But Charlotte couldn’t help feeling that, if she made eye contact with any of the shopkeepers sweeping mud from the walkway or patrons carrying their purchases, they’d know everything, as if she wore a sandwich board outlining the grim details.
She pushed open the door to the rooming house, grateful for the next several hours during which she could write up the day’s events and get ready for the gala. Her words might never see the pages of Modern Woman, but perhaps if she made them just words on paper, it would help reduce their visceral kick.
Charlotte unlocked the door to her room and got to work.
Mrs. Sullivan offered to press the burgundy gown while Charlotte bathed. One of the Sullivan boys—who was older than Charlotte by a good fifteen years and sported a fresh black eye—hauled in the heated buckets of water to fill the claw-foot tub in the bathroom. Though she’d just had a bath the day before, this one felt particularly cleansing.
After she donned the gown and slipped on her shoes, Charlotte stopped at Mrs. Sullivan’s door for a final inspection.
The older woman smiled, her blue eyes damp from emotion. She grasped Charlotte’s hands in hers. Strong hands that had been through so much. “You look lovely, dear.”
Charlotte knew Mrs. Sullivan was seeing her daughter yet again. She smiled and squeezed the older woman’s fingers. “Thank you. I promise not to disturb you when I return.”
Mrs. Sullivan patted her arm. “If it’s not too late, dear, stop in for a sherry and you can tell me all about it.”
Adjusting the embroidered silk wrap around her bare shoulders, Charlotte waved good-bye as she stepped outside. The sleeveless gown with the deep neckline was more revealing than her typical garments. It had been a less than practical selection while she packed necessities, but now she was glad she’d thrown it into the trunk. As she walked toward the four-story hotel—the tallest building in Cordova—Charlotte wondered what her future sister-in-law might think of the dress. Ruth didn’t strike her as the type to share Charlotte’s fashion choices. Or many other choices, to be honest.
Whatever had drawn Michael to her?
The late afternoon sun had allowed the wood walkways and road to dry, somewhat, assuring there would be little mud caked on her shoes as
she arrived at the Windsor. The hotel’s vertical sign, brilliantly painted with red letters trimmed in gold, dominated Second Street. The double doors had been propped open.
Charlotte followed the well-dressed couples into the lobby. A crystal chandelier sparkled overhead, giving a warm glow to the hardwood floor. A curving staircase carpeted in a deep green led to the upper floors. Behind the long registration desk, a middle-aged man stood with a tight smile on his face.
Fifty or so men and women chatted in small groups, while waiters in starched uniforms served what had to be mock-alcoholic cocktails in tall glasses, Alaska’s dry law having gone into effect earlier that year. Folks managed to skirt the law, like Mrs. Sullivan with her after-dinner sherry, as long as they kept consumption limited to private settings. Public venues were a different story.
The tableau could have been set in New York or Philadelphia, except for the men wearing knee-high leather boots, canvas trousers, and the occasional gun. Not the sort of accessory one found displayed in polite society. The dichotomy of civilization and the Last Frontier, all in one room.
Most people had clearly already veered off toward the coat-check room, just beyond the front desk, but Charlotte opted to keep her wrap. After the chilly walk, she still felt gooseflesh on her shoulders and arms. She should have worn her coat. “Fashion be damned” seemed to be the local motto. She could certainly see herself getting behind that sentiment sooner rather than later.
The hum of conversation was punctuated by bursts of laughter. Charlotte smiled, feeling more of the day’s earlier trauma retreat to a small knot in the pit of her stomach. That would have to do for now.
“May I escort you in, Miss Brody?”
She looked up into the freshly shaved face of James Eddington. His dark hair was slicked back. The tin star with DEPUTY U.S. MARSHAL in the middle and DISTRICT OF ALASKA etched in the surrounding circle stood out against his dark blue wool shirt.