The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest

by Robin Hathaway

  CHAPTER 37

  Susan drove Mrs. Doyle to Salem to pick up Horatio. When he descended from the bus, Mrs. Doyle didn’t recognize him. Dressed in a pair of faded blue denims, a plain white T-shirt, and wearing a red Phillie’s cap, he looked like any one of the local farm boys. It wasn’t until he separated himself from the other passengers and came toward them that she realized who he was.

  If only he doesn’t use that word, she prayed. (Was she supposed to kiss him? If he was really her nephew … But no, that was beyond the call of duty—for both of them.) “Hello, Horatio,” she greeted him brightly.

  “Rat,” he glared.

  “Hi, Rat,” Susan said.

  They proceeded in silence to the car. Should I ask about his injury, Mrs. Doyle wondered? Better not. Let him bring it up first.

  Once inside the car, Susan asked, “How was your trip?”

  “Cool.”

  Knowing that small talk was not Horatio’s forte, Mrs. Doyle thought the conversation would end there. She was mistaken. He leaned forward from the backseat, poking his head between them. “I sat next to this cool dude who was headed for Atlantic City. He told me all the tricks for beating the slots. Did ya know, if you move from one slot to the other—sort of rotate—you have a better chance of hitting the jackpot. It’s only the dopes that stick with one machine.”

  “I never knew that.” Susan sounded genuinely interested.

  “Then there’s the old trick of taking over a machine that some jerk’s been playing all day …” Horatio warmed to his subject. “You’ve got a much better chance working a warm machine than a cold one.”

  “I have heard that,” Susan said. “Did he give you any tips on blackjack?”

  “Nah. He was just getting started when I had to get off,” he said regretfully.

  “Too bad you’re too young to take advantage of this newfound knowledge.” Mrs. Doyle couldn’t resist.

  “Yeah,” he sighed. He leaned back and gazed out the window. “Where do you shop around here?”

  “Possum Hollow Mall,” Susan said. “We’re coming to it now.”

  A small cinder block structure with one gas pump appeared on their left

  “Oh, yeah, I remember this,” Horatio said.

  “You do?” Mrs. Doyle was surprised.

  “Yeah. Doc and I stopped here once.”

  Susan pulled in and parked between two pickup trucks. In the front window of the store was a hand scrawled sign: LIVE BAIT—CRAWLERS.

  Susan turned around in her seat. “Grandmother told me to stock up on milk because we have a growing boy in the house.” She winked at him.

  Horatio grimaced.

  The only beverage Mrs. Doyle had ever seen cross his lips was carbonated, and heaven only knew what he drank when he was out of the office.

  Horatio jumped out and followed Susan inside. When they came back, the boy was laden down with chewing gum, candy bars, and two giant bottles of soda.

  “When I told Rat we lived ten miles from the nearest store, he thought he’d better stock up,” Susan told Mrs. Doyle.

  “That place is awesome,” said Rat. “They sell shotguns and ammo right next to the Cheerios.” He popped his gum in the backseat and continued to stare out the window, seemingly mesmerized by mile after mile of empty fields. It dawned on Mrs. Doyle that the boy had probably never been to the country before, except for that one trip with the doctor. She softened toward him. Maybe this visit wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  “What’s with the fuckin’ cows?”

  Mrs. Doyle jerked her head around. He looked through her.

  Unfazed, Susan said, “That means it’s going to rain. They sit down to save a dry spot for themselves.”

  “But the sun’s out.”

  “They can feel a storm coming long before we can. It’s their sixth sense.”

  “Huh.” The car was filled with the crackle of paper as he unwrapped a Mars bar.

  It was almost dinnertime, but Mrs. Doyle refrained from saying, “You’ll spoil your appetite.”

  “Where do you live in Philadelphia, Rat?” Susan asked.

  “Mifflin Estates.”

  “Is that a new development?”

  Before he could answer, Doyle caught sight of the farmhouse and exclaimed, “Look, here we are!”

  CHAPTER 38

  Horatio lay snuggled deep in the soft feather bed. He hadn’t expected to enjoy his trip to the boondocks. The doctor had explained that he was sending him out of town for two reasons: for his own safety and the safety of the three women—Mrs. Doyle, Mrs. Ashley, and Susan. He was supposed to keep an eye on them. So far, he had to admit, the accommodations weren’t bad. The food was awesome. That woman in the kitchen knew what she was doing. And this bed was … he dozed off.

  “Whooooo.”

  His eyelids flipped open.

  “Whooooo.”

  He shot up in bed.

  “Whooooo.”

  He ran down the hall and burst into Mrs. Doyle’s room.

  “What’s up?” A light sleeper, Mrs. Doyle awoke immediately.

  Horatio flew through the dark and landed beside her on the bed.

  “Why, you’re trembling.”

  “Listen,” he ordered.

  “Whooooo.”

  He clung to her solid upper arm.

  “That’s just an owl …” she said.

  He let go of her arm.

  “ … but if you’ve never heard one before …”

  Horatio slid off the bed and slunk out of the room.

  The next morning, when Horatio came downstairs, Mrs. Doyle called out cheerily, “Hotcakes today!”

  Looking neither to the right or left, the boy made straight for the kitchen door and slammed it behind him.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Agatha turned from the stove.

  “Oh, nothing. Teenagers have their moods, you know.”

  Later, when Mrs. Doyle stepped out for a breath of air, she noticed that the rusty bicycle beside the barn was gone. She hoped he wouldn’t get lost. It was easy to do in south Jersey.

  Horatio pedaled down the empty road as if his life depended on it. How could he have been such an asshole? He could never look that old bag in the face again. He’d been dissed. And dissed by a nurse! He would pedal until he’d left all those old bags behind him. Except Susan. She wasn’t old and she was no bag! A crowd of skinny old birds were crossing the road ahead of him. He was forced to slow down to avoid running over them.

  “Step on it, you old crows,” he yelled.

  Actually, they were wild turkeys. And they continued their sedate pace, one behind the other.

  “Birdbrains!” he shouted at their retreating tail feathers.

  He bore down on the road again, oblivious to the rows of blue asters on either side still shining with the morning dew. As he rounded a bend, he caught sight of a family of deer grazing in the field. He stopped dead. A father (the one with the antlers), a mother, and a couple of teenagers. While he watched, the father led his family steadily but unhurriedly into the woods. Horatio pedaled more slowly after that, scanning the fields.

  A pickup truck passed him coming the other way. The man at the wheel gave him the slow wave of the good ol’ boy. Instinctively knowing the right response, Horatio gave a slow return nod. As the sun rose higher, he began to sweat and his calves began to ache. Dragging his feet on the asphalt, he slowed to a stop. Slipping to the grass, he wished he’d brought a water bottle. He had no idea how long he’d been riding or how many miles he’d covered. The scenery looked just the same as the scenery around the Ashley place. Hunger gnawed at him and he had a raging thirst. Mosquitoes found him. He leapt back on the bike and continued pedaling to nowhere.

  When Horatio didn’t show up for lunch, Mrs. Doyle began to worry. But then, she reassured herself, he isn’t stupid. If he gets lost he can always ask directions. He can speak the language. It’s not as if he were in some foreign country. Or was it? A boy who had spent his whole life in the
city hasn’t a clue about how to survive in the country. She began to worry again. He was still convalescing, after all. What if his wound should reopen? She spent a miserable afternoon running to the window and listening for the sound of a bicycle in the drive. By dinnertime she had worked herself into a state. Should she call Dr. Fenimore?

  Shortly after the mosquito attack, Horatio had stumbled into Winston (he must have been pedaling in a circle), which had a small grocery store. Things were so cheap compared to Philly; he had enough money to buy a bottle of water, a sandwich, and some insect repellant. But he couldn’t afford the suntan oil.

  When he left the town, he thought he was heading toward the farm. Having satisfied his hunger and thirst, he was in no hurry to get back there—back to those old bags. He took his time pedaling slowly—looking for deer, waving to the good ol’ boys. One of them threw a can out his cab window. Slob. It landed in a ditch a few yards ahead. He picked it up. Budweiser. Half full. He drained it. Not bad. He tossed it in his bike basket. The road with its wild flowers looked too nice to clutter up with cans. He stopped and rested under a tree, the bike beside him. He dozed.

  When he opened his eyes, the sun was low in the sky and he was hungry again.

  Mrs. Doyle was frantic. Agatha was about to put dinner on the table and Horatio still hadn’t shown up. She had called Dr. Fenimore twice, but he wasn’t in. She had decided not to use the pager unless the situation reached emergency proportions. She didn’t want to give the doctor a heart attack.

  “Where’s the boy?” Agatha asked as she began serving their portions.

  “I don’t know. He went for a bike ride and hasn’t come back.”

  Jenks looked up. “Lost, probably.”

  Thanks, Jenks.

  “Maybe you should take a cruise around the back roads, Fred,” Agatha said, “before it gets dark.”

  “He’ll be OK. Boys are like dogs. They always find their way home.”

  “But he isn’t home,” Mrs. Doyle burst out. “He just got here yesterday. He doesn’t know his way around here.”

  “He’ll be OK,” the man repeated maddeningly.

  When Mrs. Ashley heard the news, she took matters into her own hands. They all piled into her station wagon, except for Jenks and Susan. Jenks took off in his pickup and Susan stayed home, in case Horatio should show up there.

  Horatio’s legs ached. He couldn’t pedal anymore. Instead he walked, pushing the bike beside him. He hadn’t seen a house or a barn for hours. Not even a car. The pickups had petered out a while ago. The sun had dropped below the field on his left. The red ball had left a pink stain that was fading fast. Up to now, he had just felt uncomfortable. Hot, tired, itchy, hungry, thirsty. Now he felt something else. He didn’t want to be out here alone in the dark. No way. It was too freakin’ quiet. Geez—if only a horn would honk, a bus would backfire, or a siren would shriek!

  Besides, those old bags were probably worryin’ about him. And he was supposed to be lookin’ after them!

  As he rounded a bend in the road, the silhouette of a cottage appeared across the field on his right. Beyond it, he could just make out the river. Mist rose from it, like steam from a pot.

  The river goes past the Ashley place! If I follow the river, it’ll lead me to the house, right?

  If you follow it in the right direction, dude.

  He cut across the field toward the cottage, pushing the bike, his calf muscles screaming. The mosquitoes were back in full force. Their high-pitched whine bore into his ears. Twice he had to stop and slap them away.

  The cottage was dark. As he drew near, he saw why. The windows were boarded up. As he rounded the corner, there was a flash of light. He looked up. Another flash. It was coming out of the wall of the house!

  Horatio forgot his sore legs. He forgot the mosquitoes. He dropped the bike and ran—along the river, away from the cottage, into the dark.

  The farmhouse loomed in front of him. The lower windows glowed—three yellow squares. The barnyard was empty. Mrs. Ashley’s beat-up station wagon was nowhere in sight. No sign of Jenks’s old pickup, either. He ran to the screen door and jerked it open. The kitchen was deserted. The remains of dinner still lay on the table. Funny. He ran through the house, calling. He was heading up the central staircase to check out the second floor when a sound stopped him. A moan more than a cry. It came from Susan’s room. He moved faster, but more quietly. When he reached her door, he didn’t see her at first. His eyes swiveled around the room. Then he saw her. In the shadows, outside the circle of light cast by her bedside lamp, she was pressed against the back wall, her eyes fixed on the bed. The bed was rumpled. A pile of sheets and pillows kept him from seeing what held her attention. He moved into the room and caught his breath. A black and white snake—head raised, tongue flicking—sat coiled among the pillows, ready to strike. Horatio looked wildly around for some blunt instrument. Nothing but clothes and books. If he hurled a book, he might miss. He glanced again at Susan. She hadn’t moved, her eyes still fixed—hypnotized by the snake.

  A rose comforter hung half on, half off the bed. Snatching one corner, Horatio lunged, hurling the comforter over the snake, and threw himself on top of it. “Run,” he cried.

  Susan, snapping out of her daze, ran. But only as far as the door. “Come on, Rat!”

  He jumped from the bed and backed out of the room, slamming the door after him. He turned to look for Susan. She was right behind him. Before he could say anything, she grabbed him by the shoulders and planted a big kiss on his forehead.

  There were sounds from below. The others were returning; their footsteps dragged on the kitchen floor; their voices sounded subdued and dejected. Susan ran down the stairs, pulling Horatio after her. “Look who I found!” she cried.

  Mrs. Doyle rushed forward, and stopped. Surveying Horatio critically, she saw that except for an overdose of sunburn and a few mosquito bites, he was fine. Even his ego seemed intact.

  When Susan told them about Horatio’s rescue his ears burned, and he rummaged in the refrigerator for a soda.

  Then he told them about the flashes of light he had seen at the old wharf.

  “Heat lightning.” Jenks dismissed them with a shrug. Picking up a poker from the fireplace, the handyman moved toward the back stairs. “Better take care of that varmint.”

  “Couldn’t you put it in a burlap bag or something?” said Susan. The danger past, she was now worried about the snake.

  Horatio picked up a metal bucket and followed Jenks.

  The four women remained in the kitchen, waiting for the crash. None came. A few minutes later, the man and boy returned, Jenks swinging the bucket with the snake inside. Cautiously, the women peered in. Curled in the bottom, its creamy skin etched sharply with black diamonds, it flicked its tongue at them. “Nice specimen,” said Jenks.

  “What are you going to do with him?” asked Mrs. Ashley.

  “I’ve got a little chloroform in the barn,” he said. “Real painless way to go.” He scratched his head “Queer … I never saw a rattler in these parts before. This fellow must be an import.”

  As his words sank in, Mrs. Ashley and Mrs. Doyle exchanged a startled glance.

  CHAPTER 39

  The phone rang. Fenimore answered it.

  “Doc?” Rafferty. “Can I pick you up in twenty minutes?”

  “What for?”

  “I want to show you something.”

  Fenimore glanced in his waiting room. One more patient: Mrs. Dougherty with her daughter Effie. He would be glad to have an excuse to cut their visit short. “OK.”

  Rafferty and Fenimore sat in the back of the patrol car while the driver took them to Mifflin Estates. As they pulled up to the sullen cluster of buildings that formed the project, a group of youths scattered. An elderly black woman with a cane stared after them.

  Rafferty led the way. Up the fire stairs, down the corridor, to where a uniformed police officer stood guard in front of Horatio’s door.

  “The key, Mi
ke,” Rafferty held out his hand.

  The officer gave it to him.

  When Rafferty opened the door, Fenimore fell back as if he’d been knocked back by a blow. It was the stench. Rancid meat, rotton fruit—and feces. The neat apartment Fenimore had remembered had been trashed beyond recognition. Curtains torn. Sheets and mattress slashed. Dishes and glassware shattered. And scrawled across the facing wall in red spray paint: FUCK YOU! Under these words was a drawing of a lizard—the sign of the Chiefs.

  “Whew!” said Fenimore.

  Rafferty pulled him out and shut the door. He tossed the key to the officer. “Thanks, Mike”

  The officer nodded.

  Halfway down the hall, Rafferty said, “I wanted you to see it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re the one who’s going to persuade Mrs. Lopez to move to a new neighborhood.”

  “Oh.”

  CHAPTER 40

  The day of the tea party began differently from other days. Instead of being eased awake by the smell of Agatha’s bacon, sausage, or scrapple, Mrs. Doyle was jolted awake by the sound of noisy footsteps on the stairs and loud laughter in the hall.

  Still in her nightgown, Mrs. Doyle poked her head out the door to see a tousled Susan in a nightshirt, fending off the playful advances of a young man.

  “Oh—Mrs. Doyle!” Susan grinned sheepishly over the young man’s shoulder.

  The young man turned. Mrs. Doyle ducked back into her room, but not before she had glimpsed a blond, close-cropped head with blue eyes and a tanned movie star face. Peter Jordan, no doubt. Mrs. Doyle had a prejudice against overtly handsome people. It was a flaw of hers, she knew, and sometimes it caused her to misjudge character. She had this feeling that flawlessly beautiful people—men or women—belonged on a screen—TV or movie—but not in real life. People with no warts or wrinkles must be either fakes or phonies. She should try to control her prejudice. A good detective, like a good nurse, must be objective at all times. She glanced at the clock. Only eight A.M., but the party seemed to have already started.