Reanimatrix

by Pete Rawlik

  As I sat in the lounge, the main building was bustling that morning; the owner’s son Max was desperately trying to get Christmas decorations up, drafting the resident physician, Doctor Lawrence Houseman, and his ten-year-old son Jake into covering the hall with boughs of ever greens and ribbon. A small army of deliverymen were moving through as well, making sure that supplies were laid in, not only for the Christmas Day feast, but for the potentially long winter as well.

  In the hotel library, a bookman by the name of Geiger and his associates were busy evaluating the contents of the shelves. The volumes occupying the room had been cobbled together from the contents of various dilapidated estates surrounding the resort and included texts in Latin, Greek, and even Dutch. While the selection might have been exceptional for an antiquarian, it failed to pique the interest of either the staff or guests of the hotel. Consequently the Kellermans had called in Geiger and his team to evaluate the contents, sell what they could, and update it with more modern fare. In this endeavor Geiger was aided by a team of three experts: the gaunt and taciturn Toht was an expert in Germanic and Nordic literature, while the garrulous and fawning Cairo, who always smelled of geraniums, was an expert in the Levant. The third of Geiger’s assistants was Dr. Chet Copperpot, a man whose work I was familiar with because he had studied under my father. His thesis, concerning the economics of New England privateers, had stirred much debate amongst professional and amateur historians. I do recall my father mentioning that he had obtained a position at Faber, in Oregon. How and why he had come to be employed by Geiger I could not say.

  The academics and holiday decorators weren’t the only people milling about the building. In the theater the Italian trumpet player King Leopardi and his band were rehearsing, desperately trying to hear themselves over the banging of carpenters, masons, plumbers, and electricians. There was a surfeit of tradesmen in the area, at least according to Max Kellerman. Work on the local Ashokan Reservoir had finished a few years earlier, and the process of moving buildings and constructing new towns and the reservoir itself had brought hundreds to the valley. When the work was finished hundreds remained behind, and, combined with many of the unfortunates displaced by the reservoir, had settled into squatters’ villages, and were willing to work a great deal cheaper than those from Leffert’s Corners or Chichester. The result had been a flurry of work at various resorts which could often get by on paying the men little more than a hot meal or two a day.

  Also in the lobby with me watching the snow fall was a young lady who spent a considerable amount of her time at her sketchbook by the name of Winifred Lefferts. She was a distant relation to the Lefferts for whom the local hamlet was named, all being descendent from an early Dutch settler named Piter Lefferts, of whom she was quite proud.

  “The Lefferts’ house in Brooklyn is a museum now, run by the Daughters of the American Revolution.” she told me proudly. “It used to sit on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn, but after the family donated it to the city it was moved six blocks into Prospect Park. Have you been to Brooklyn, Lt. Peaslee?”

  I informed her that I had not.

  “Oh, you simply must go. It is a beautiful city, made all the more wonderful by Prospect Park. They say that the president of the Park Commission was instrumental in the creation of the park, but the truth is he never could have done it without Frederick Law Olmsted, who did most of the designs. It was Olmsted that had designed Central Park in Manhattan as well. It’s early times yet, but as an artist I can recognize what Olmsted was able to accomplish, and maybe someday he’ll be recognized as a premier landscape architect. He already has a name amongst the painters and sculptors. If you have a chance, see John Singer Sargent’s portrait of the man. Never will you ever see a better characterization of an old man in love with his work. Why, it is as much a landscape as it is a portrait.” Amused by her talkative nature, I inquired as to the content of her own work. The young woman blushed and admitted that her own work was still in a formative stage, but she hoped one day to find employment in graphic design or perhaps with magazine work. She showed me a page from her book and I must say I was quite impressed by her rendition of the trees outside the hall that were now more than just dusted with snow.

  Just as she opened her mouth to speak once more, which was exactly when I realized that I had perhaps made a mistake in opening a conversation with the girl, Geiger and Copperpot burst out of the library, each with a small stack of books in their hands. Geiger was quite animated and speaking at a frenetic rate. “Mycroft’s Commentaries on Witchcraft, Poe’s The Worm at Midnight, and The Qanoon-e-Islam go to the MacDonald’s in Glenbogle; Von Junzt’s Uber das Finstere Lachen, Vallet’s Le Manuscript de Dom Adson de Melk go to Old College in Oxford; and most importantly Marks and Co. are to get the Histoire d’Amour by Bernard de Vaillantcoeur. You’ll find the addresses in my book.” He handed his pile to Copperpot. “Make sure they make today’s train, I don’t want them to be stuck here over the holiday.”

  As Copperpot nodded there was a sudden braying from outside, announcing that the horses and sleigh had arrived. The beasts stamped as they pulled beneath the awning and an avalanche of caked snow fell off of their harness and legs. The wooden sleigh was larger than I expected, and varnished bright red with brass trim. It was piled high in places with packages and luggage, including trunks, some of which were likely the property of my sister. Not counting the driver, the sleigh was occupied by five passengers, all of whom were either guests of General Sternwood, his employees, or guests of my own. Knowing this, I made a move to help the travelers unpack themselves from the sleigh, but was quickly halted by Geiger’s arm on my shoulder.

  “Lt. Peaslee.” His grip was firm and his voice cloyingly pleasant. “My associates and I are throwing a little party this evening. Nothing too extravagant, I assure you, just a gathering of like-minded men who enjoy each other’s company.” He handed me an invitation printed on heavy paper embossed with a time and place. In the lower left corner, a green carnation had been stamped. Suddenly I understood. “I do hope you’ll join us.” His hand slid down and lingered too long at the small of my back.

  Our eyes caught each other’s, and below his well-manicured mustache I thought I caught a sudden flash of his tongue between his teeth. He was an attractive man, refined, educated, well dressed even, but there was something about him that made me suspicious. “Perhaps,” I said in a noncommittal tone. “I have other obligations that must be tended to first.”

  He smiled, nodded, and turned sharply to march back into the library. Outside, my colleague, Hadrian Vargr, had emerged from the sleigh, and was helping the other passengers climb down onto the icy ground. First to exit was a man whom I was vaguely familiar with, Senator Henry Paget Lowe, who was a vocal member of Congress often in opposition to President Wilson. He was a large man, rumored to be fond of his food and of expensive clothes. His traveling outfit consisted of a finely cut charcoal business suit with a mink-lined overcoat and a fur-trimmed top hat. As he dismounted the sleigh, there was a noticeable groan, but whether that was from him or the sleigh I was not sure. In his wake came a much smaller, round-faced man with a balding head and black rimmed glasses. Though I had never met him, I knew this had to be Doctor Geoffrey Darrow, scion of the Darrow Chemical Corporation, and yet another graduate of Miskatonic University, though in this case it had been from the Medical School. While not as famous as some of the others, Darrow was considered a hero, serving through and helping Arkham survive the plague that had ravaged her in 1905. He stumbled as he climbed out of the cabin, but Vargr caught his arm and guided him down to the frost-covered brickwork.

  A gust of wind cast a dusting of snow across my line of vision, causing me to temporarily lose sight of the sleigh. I thought it was only a moment, but it must have been longer, for when it finally cleared, Vargr was arm in arm with two of the loveliest ladies I had ever seen. One I was partial to and recognized immediately. It had been years since I had seen her but I would have known Hannah Peasle
e anywhere. She had blossomed from the gangly girl I had known as a sister into a charming and delicate thing that reminded me of my mother in both poise and grace.

  As they crossed the threshold, Hannah broke ranks and dashed forward to great me, throwing her arms around me and nearly bowling me over. “Robert!” she exclaimed with gleeful exasperation. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” She pulled back and grabbed my collar with both hands. “Look at you, such a fine-looking man you’ve grown into.” She kissed me on the cheek. “A little thin, though. What have they been feeding you?”

  “Always the same Hannah,” I laughed, “more my mother than my sister.” A faux pout appeared across her face. “Still, where would I be without her to take care of me?”

  She daintily pushed against my shoulder. “Still trying to learn how to properly dress yourself.” There was a sudden laugh that swept through the small crowd, and I caught the dulcet tones emerging from Hannah’s young charge. Hannah realized she hadn’t yet introduced the girl to me and in flustered sentences did so. “Robert, may I introduce you to Megan Halsey-Griffith, a first-year student at The Hall School. Megan had no plans for the holidays, so I suggested she come along to this lovely mountaintop resort as my traveling companion.”

  As the young lady removed her snow-covered hood I was instantly enraptured. Her skin was pale white and she had large blue eyes with long lashes. Her lips were full and wine-dark red. Her hair was wispy and cut in a most wild fashion, though I admit this may simply have been my own lack of experience with recent American styles. The snow melting off her coat and hood caught the light and framed her in a scintillating aura that made her almost angelic in appearance and reminded me of the image created by the artist Richard Upton Pickman in his early canvas, Eurydice Descending. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and she moved me in a way that no woman ever had before. Yet I took Hannah’s subtle hint that she had concealed in her introduction. Despite her appearance, this ravishing beauty before me was no woman, but still a girl; first-year students at The Hall School were usually under fifteen years of age. Not that I had any romantic interest in the girl; Hannah knew of my proclivities, and was more than likely providing me that information so that I could protect her from the advances of others who might take advantage of the girl. The invitation to Geiger’s party came to mind, as did the prominent green carnation that decorated it.

  As a reflex I gently took her hand and spoke in a most polite and caring manner. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Halsey-Griffith.” My words brought an odd stare from Vargr, who knew that I normally despised meeting new people, particularly women.

  She giggled at my formality. “Please, sir, call me Megan, or Miss Halsey. I have never been comfortable with being a member of the Griffith family.” Her tone was frightfully frank and it seemed she was going to speak, as young women often do, of family secrets better left unspoken.

  Hannah spoke up and offered details that seemed to diffuse whatever the young woman was going to say. “Megan joined us just a few months ago. She’s the daughter of the famed Doctor Allan Halsey, and the stepdaughter of David Griffith, who was lost when the Lusitania went down. Her mother sent her to us after it was realized that the schools in Arkham weren’t going to be able to fulfill her needs.” She turned and looked lovingly at the young lady. “You see, Megan is something of a prodigy, a genius really. At least Wingate thinks so.”

  At the mention of my brother’s name I flinched, a reaction that my friend Vargr noticed and thankfully took action on. “Robert, the ladies and I have been traveling all day; perhaps it would be best that we take them to their rooms and allow them to freshen up. We could meet for lunch at one o’clock. I am told the chef here, a man called Bremmer, makes the most magnificent confit de canard.” He leaned in closer and whispered in my ear, “The driver has also told me that there is still a supply of beer on the premises, something I have sorely missed since we have left Europe.”

  “Of course.” I nodded and patted my Montenegrin friend on the shoulder. “You show the girls to their rooms and I shall see to General Sternwood and his guests.”

  From behind me came a gravelly voice, “I think we can see to ourselves, Peaslee.” I turned to find Sternwood approaching from the stairs. He was a tall man; thin as a rake, but with an air of authority that went beyond the uniform. He was a commanding presence with deep-set eyes that seemed to bore into you and demand obedience. He had been a hard man to work for in Paris, for it was he who had been in command of our security team during the treaty negotiations. Ultimately, it had been Sternwood who had sent me to Locus Solus and Ylourgne, where I had learned that which had driven me to the brink of madness. He had, in his own manner, apologized, but the time in Ylourgne had damaged me too greatly, and I had lost respect for the man. I still followed his orders, but the number of days for which I would be obligated to do so were rapidly diminishing.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “You and Vargr go spend time with your sister and her friend. I can meet with Lowe by myself.” He waved me off again, and this time I didn’t argue and ran to catch up with Vargr, Hannah, and the charming Megan. A quick glance back and I saw Lowe with his hand on Sternwood’s back while Darrow shook the General’s hand vigorously. It seemed so very odd, for in my experience Sternwood was not fond of being touched. He was, in his way, adverse to the presence of most human beings, and instead preferred being alone. That the General had let both Lowe and Darrow touch him suggested that they were all well acquainted with each other, more so than I had previously thought. These were fleeting thoughts, and soon I was preoccupied with catching up with Vargr, my sister, Hannah, and her charge, Megan.

  The threesome had already taken the stairs and by the time I reached the upper floor, the girls had disappeared from the hall. Only Vargr remained, struggling with some crates the porter had left there. A dozen or so of the roughly hewn wooden crates remained, all carefully marked as to the manner in which they were to be transported. Unbidden, I grabbed one of the packages and walked into his room.

  As soon as I opened the door to Vargr’s room I was hit with a wave of heat and humidity. Inside there was a Franklin stove with a low fire in it surrounded by several pots of water, all of which were giving off a low steam. Arranged farther out, away from the fire, were about a dozen potted plants, orchids of great variety in tones of fleshy white, pink, and striking yellows. Each of the crates that we were bringing in from the hall seemed to contain yet another specimen of orchid.

  “They’re a gift from General Sternwood,” explained Vargr. “I made the mistake of mentioning how much I liked his collection in Paris.” My puzzled look elicited an explanation. “He had a small glass house on the roof of the mission building. Kind of odd, don’t you think, an oasis of tropical plants on a roof in the middle of a major city? The funny thing is he’s going to do it again. He has an estate out near Los Angeles, he’s building a greenhouse. I’ve seen the designs, the thing is going to be grandiose.”

  I looked at the plants. “A rather expensive hobby, don’t you think? Where does he get all the money?”

  “You remember Gatsby? He went into business for himself, import-export or some such thing. He and the General have some sort of arrangement, a partnership of sorts, something to do with manufacturing. I should know more, I admit, but the General has been very secretive of late, and I am not paid to pry into his affairs.”

  “At least not yet,” I snickered.

  “I don’t think the Bureau would have much interest in the business affairs of retired generals.”

  I nodded, humoring him, knowing that his usual suspicious and inquisitive nature was often suspended when it came to military men. “When do you start in Washington?”

  “Boston, actually, and at the end of January. I have just enough time to see Sternwood to California.”

  Just then the young Miss Lefferts wandered through the hall and rather than contin
uing on her way, paused to admire the flora that crowded Vargr’s room. “What lovely flowers,” she exclaimed, “such colors and textures.” She spun about the room slowly so as to take in the whole of things. As she did so, her pencils and sketchbook fell from her hand and tumbled to the floor. Vargr went down on his knee and nearly collided with Lefferts as she too knelt down. Their eyes caught and locked. “Please may I sketch them, Mr. . . .”

  “Vargr, Hadrian Vargr. Of course, young miss, but you must promise me to not touch them, and to keep them warm. They are fragile things and must be cared for in the most precise manner, and you must promise me one of your sketches.”

  “Of course, Mr. Vargr.” She picked up one of the pots that was overflowing with succulent stems and flowers. “My name is Winifred Lefferts, I’m in number 5 at the end of the hall.” With that she strolled down the hall, the delicate orchid and pot floating before her like some sacred object awaiting reverence.

  As the door to number 5 closed, that of number 4 swung open and Hannah and Megan flowed out into the hall. They had changed clothes and now wore dresses and warm sweaters that bore the crest of The Hall School. They were giggling as they came into the corridor, as girls will do when they have been speaking of something that they do not want others to know of, usually men. Together the four of us made our way down the stairs to lunch and the hope of reestablishing relations with my dear sister.

  I will not bore you with the details of our meal, but will say that the conversation between Hannah and myself continued long after we had finished our food. Indeed, we took coffee in the lounge and chatted as the snow fell, coating the grounds in a thick white blanket. While Hannah and I renewed our relationship, I could not help but notice the way that Vargr was looking at Megan. For some strange reason I felt a pang of jealousy, an emotion that I had only rarely experienced before. It confused me, for I had never before considered Hadrian Vargr as anything more than a friend. That I should suddenly be envious of a young girl filled me with confusion.