Veritas

by Quinn Coleridge

  He gives the drugs a few minutes to work, pulling the Book from his desk. “Answer my questions with the first thing that comes to mind.”

  Faust has not asked me to reveal anything more about his personal life. He would rather listen to my childhood trauma instead. So I spin him a yarn for his record book with my raspy, drug-induced whisper. All of it is true. I did have a lonely childhood. My father is cold and distant. I did not learn about healthy relationships from my parents, and then there are the trust issues. My dark side runs deep, and Faust eats it up like caviar on toast. As he should. I’ve learned to be a good little actor to satisfy my chemical cravings.

  The session eventually ends, and Davis leads me back to the Unresponsive Unit. Matron gives me permission to skip my chores and rest. After sleeping through the night, I awaken with a start in the early morning, when the clock chimes three.

  I know who killed Margaret Hotchkiss.

  Faust mentioned a Miss Honeycutt to Matron Latham while dictating the telegram to her yesterday. I’ve heard the name before. It’s Miss Amelia Honeycutt, to be exact. I know her because she came to my family home on several occasions. She was my mother’s friend.

  A New York heiress, Amelia Honeycutt is also a generous philanthropist, an emerging mental health advocate akin to the great Dorothea Dix. In years past, I remember Mama speaking with her about the need for reform in asylums such as Ironwood.

  “I will guide the leaders of the industry, Lenore,” Amelia said. “All they need is incentive and proper instruction.”

  I think of the repairs the asylum has recently undergone. The painting of Faust’s office and a few other rooms, the improvements upon the façade and the dining hall, but nothing to actually benefit the patients themselves. The exterior is pretty while the inside rots. All to make a good impression on Honeycutt, I’d wager. And what would Amelia Honeycutt offer Faust as an incentive for reform? A cash reward, of course. Faust loves money almost as much as he enjoys inflicting pain.

  By all accounts, Margaret Hotchkiss was a caring nurse, a good woman who followed the dictates of her conscience. If she wanted to reveal the truth about the conditions at Ironwood, Faust would kill her to avoid exposure and still retain the prize from Honeycutt.

  Then why was Gabriel carrying the body away?

  That’s easy to understand as well, I suppose. He found Margaret before Faust could dispose of her and could not bear to leave his love behind. That’s why Gabriel allowed himself to be captured when Titus saw him with the corpse in the hallway. According to Anna, the giant sunk to his knees cradling the body, weeping like a child. Truth vibrates through my bones, and I know these deductions are correct. An innocent man is trapped in the Pit, wasting away in the darkness.

  You and Margaret deserve better than this, Gabriel.

  I rub my clammy palms together, feeling a bit like Lady Macbeth. A party to murder until I reveal the sin. But weak and sick and addicted, I can barely save myself, let alone anyone else.

  Libera me ab sanguine. Deliver me from blood. Make clean my hands.

  Isabelle has regained her strength after giving birth. She and the baby also avoided catching the measles during the outbreak, thanks to Anna’s vigilant care. Mother and child left Ironwood after breakfast this morning, their dues paid in full to Faust. She rode into town with Watts and according to his conversation with Davis, has settled into a hotel in Ironwood City to await the arrival of Anna’s son.

  The Loveridge family is sponsoring Isabelle’s transition from the asylum to regular life—offering her housing and assistance with finding employment. The sponsorship was one of the contingencies of Faust letting her go. Before Isabelle’s departure, I slipped my grandmother’s silver bracelet into her hand—a gift commemorating baby Olive’s arrival into the world. Should things take a bad turn, and I never see Isabelle again, she can trade the bracelet for cash, and use the funds to care for the child.

  Now that Izzie and Ollie are free, we can move forward. Hershel Watts has agreed to help Anna escape if I give him the ruby necklace. The plan seems risky, but he assures us it will succeed. This isn’t much comfort, since Watts is the mind behind the plan itself. He has also upped the ante, demanding more compensation if I escape as well. I hope to go with Anna, but that hinges upon whether I obtain the Book beforehand.

  With Gabriel condemned to hang in a week, I cannot wait for Kelly to come back. I have no idea when that will be. Watts’ greed, however, is a sure bet. The price for my freedom? Two small pearl earrings. The last of my loot.

  But what if we’re caught or punished? What if Hershel fails?

  Time passes as I fetch kindling and restock the firewood on the main floor. Then the dinner bell clangs, and I make my way into the dining hall without giving my appearance, or hygiene, a second thought. I don’t have escorts anymore—the asylum guards only come for me if I have a session with Faust. Otherwise, I am expected to show up for chores and meals on my own.

  Ironwood has become familiar. I am accustomed to the layout of the place, the smells, the spoiled food, the brutal behavior of its occupants. With one hand extended, I keep next to the wall, measuring the distance before me. Twenty feet to the dining hall entrance. Eighteen. Twelve. Seven.

  I cross the threshold and find the end of the serving line, waiting for my portion of the usual midday fare. There’s the wet plop of barley stew hitting my tin plate. With a spoon in my hand, nothing extra is required for consumption of the stew but the will of iron to eat it. I find a table and sit down. The air is musky with body odor, which doesn’t help anyone’s appetite. Certainly not mine. Anna is too busy to join me. She has extra laundry to clean due to Miss Honeycutt’s forthcoming visit. I divert my brain from listening to my taste buds complain about the stew and analyze Hershel’s route for our departure.

  He and Roy just cleared the weeds that grow in the irrigation canal on the north side of the property. It must be done before the gardeners open the spillway from the lake and use the canal to water crops the asylum sells to grocers in Ironwood City. Even with the cold weather, they hope to plant rows of spinach and green peas soon. Nutrition-rich foods the inmates help the gardeners tend but will never eat, planted only to benefit Faust’s already fat wallet. Nearly as deep as Hershel is tall, the clean canal bottom is hidden from the asylum windows, even the guards in the watchtower can’t see it.

  My thoughts are interrupted when I gag after trying to swallow the last bite. After wiping my mouth, I exhale slowly, forcing my stomach to relax. Fortunately, the nausea passes, and I pick up the puzzle once more. As Watts suggested, Anna and I will use the north exit tonight and climb down into the irrigation canal. We will follow it to the edge of the property, to the asylum wall. This is the end of Hershel’s involvement. He knows nothing beyond the door, canal, and wall. Doesn’t want to know, either. Evidently, bartered jewels carry no guarantee of good service these days.

  Anna’s son is made of entirely different cloth than Hershel. Already in town to pick up Isabelle and Olive, he will throw a rope ladder across the stone barricade and we will climb up and over. The three of us will dash to Ironwood City, meet Isabelle at the hotel, and separate for our various destinations. Anna, her son, Isabelle, and Olive are bound for Denver. I shall take a train to Stonehenge.

  It might just work. If the stars are aligned and the gods are on our side. Sweaty and hot, I reach down to my boot and remove the pencil and paper. My corner of the dining hall is quiet, but the rest of the room is filled with movement and noise. Sickness descends upon me again. Trembling, I place the smooth, clean paper on the bench and write a line. Davis will transport this message when he takes the supper tray to the Pit. He’s delivered several of them already.

  DON’T GIVE UP, GABRIEL. DO NOT DESPAIR.

  It’s medication time for the Incurables Unit. I sit in a corner of the stairwell, squeezed into a tiny nook beneath the landing—where, hopefully, no one can see me. Sweat streams down my face and neck, but I shiver and rub my a
rms for warmth. Heart pounding, I count off the seconds in my head. Time passes quickly when there is little to waste. Missing from my work detail, I could be found and punished at any moment.

  I listen to Matron advising a novice employee. She’s a young thing just arrived to replace Margaret Hotchkiss.

  “Be organized and efficient,” Matron intones. “Prompt, precise. The entire staff is only as good as it’s weakest member, my dear.”

  Then Matron, or as I like to call her, Lucifer’s Concubine, leaves the new nurse to carry on and walks directly toward my hiding place. Frantic, I try to make myself even smaller and pray I escape her notice. She passes by me and climbs the stairs to the third floor, rose attar blooming behind her. I finally exhale, weak and shivery.

  Fifteen minutes, that’s all I have until Titus returns from his smoke break. Think. Surely your brain is good for something. Light a fire in the stairwell garbage bin? Throw a rock through the window and hide until the nurses run past? What to do to empty the Incurables…

  Concentrating on the nurses in the next room, I learn the exact location of the medical cart. It’s at the top of the second aisle, twenty feet from the entrance. Three women are working the ward together, and presently, they are preparing syringes for rapid injection among the patients.

  The more experienced nurses begin administering the medication, but Novice stays at the cart. Is she distressed? Yes, I definitely smell anxiety. Her hands must be trembling too, because she drops a vial and knocks some of the prepared syringes to the floor. They roll in various directions: near her foot, next to the cart, in the center of the second aisle. As the new comer, she obviously doesn’t wish to call attention to her mistake and picks them up discreetly. But she misses one.

  Good girl, Novice, remain just as you are. Intimidated, slightly incompetent.

  “Help me with this fellow, Hanks. He’s too strong for me.”

  Evidently Hanks is Novice the new girl, because she runs to the older woman when called, leaving the last fallen syringe behind. It calls to me from the aisle. I had hoped to steal some vials from the trolley through some hastily-orchestrated ruse, but this is so much more convenient. All three nurses are facing the opposite wall, concentrating on their patients—I can tell from the direction of their voices and breathing. You know, being bad isn’t so hard after all. I’m rather adept at it.

  Opening the door carefully, I cross the threshold and take several quiet steps. The room stinks of bedpans and lye, the sour smell of near-death. No one seems to notice my progress with all the groaning and suffering going on among the sick. I move quickly, counting off the distance between me and the desired bed, holding my breath as I creep. This must be the center one. I lower myself to the tile and turn on my stomach, sliding under the bed. Reaching my hand out, I stretch from under the bed into the aisle, hoping the nurses don’t notice. Nothing but cottony balls of dust, hair, and other detritus. Who’s in charge of housekeeping? And where’s that damned needle?

  The side of my hand brushes something hard. The syringe! Only the cursed thing rolls to the right. Stretch a bit more, Hester. A little further and it’s yours! That’s right. Now to get out of here. Confound it, is that Hanks walking back to the cart? The only thing separating us is a sagging mattress and a bed skirt.

  “Come here!” another nurse yells. “This one doesn’t want his shot either. There must be something in the air today.”

  “Right,” Hanks replies.

  Holding my breath again, I hide under the bed as two nurses return to the cart for more medication. Minutes seem like an eternity until all of them are busy with their patients once more. I inch out from my hiding place, keeping low, and scuttle to the door. The knob turns in my hand, and I pull it toward me. The sick continue moaning and tossing about, as I sneak back into the hall, disgusted with myself for taking their only means of comfort. Until a wave of nausea rolls through me—then I think only of the craving inside.

  Someone steps out of the Incurables Unit. “You there!” Hanks calls, stopping me in my tracks. “I thought I saw the door close just now, out of the corner of my eye. Did you need something?”

  I lick the sweat from my upper lip, turn back toward her, and shake my head.

  “Then what were you doing?”

  She sounds suspicious and annoyed. How do I salvage this situation? I lift my pitch-stained hands so she can see them and mouth two words. Stack. Wood.

  “Are you new here? There’s no hearth or hob in this unit—no need for kindling. Everyone knows that.” Hanks sighs, as though she’s given up on teaching an imbecile. “You really must learn your way around.”

  As soon as the nurse leaves me, I return to the nook under the stairs and grab the sharpened chicken bone from my secret pocket. Will she realize my theft and turn me in? Will Titus be summoned? Reach for me with his hard, bruising hands? But all I hear are the nurses holding down a weeping man. “Let me die,” he says. I knuckle the moisture away from my eyes and drop the bone before finding a vein. Breathing rapidly, I tap the syringe barrel as I have heard Faust do on so many occasions and then inject myself, waiting for the hot, stinging rush. And it blessedly arrives. Fortunatus mea.

  Anna and I are leaving Ironwood tonight. I cannot be a burden to her with my tremors and vomiting. This dose should help me function, at least long enough to reunite Anna with her son.

  First task completed, now on to the second.

  I leave the asylum by a side entrance, following the path to the woodshed to gather a load of kindling. Deo favente. The guards aren’t anywhere near the shed. Inhaling, I smell the faint odor of cigarette smoke and hear Titus talking with Roy down near the stables. I haven’t been missed, in spite of my larceny. After filling my arms with wood, I count the steps back to the asylum and plead with the heavens in my heart. Forgive me my sins for I am not a thief.

  Although with one thing left to take, I am not done stealing yet.

  27

  Fugio.

  I run, flee.

  When I finally come upon Titus, he’s finished his smoke and Roy has gone off somewhere. Good riddance too. Titus doesn’t say anything out of the ordinary, nothing about my appearance. The sweat upon my brow, the bone-deep weariness. We all look like walking death at Ironwood, I suppose. It’s a given we’re ugly.

  “Get that wood inside and hurry up about it,” he says. “Doctor’s office is nearly empty.”

  Titus follows me to Faust’s domain. He stands near the desk for a few minutes, and I begin stacking the fragrant, sappy pine in the wood bin. I use precise movements, as though I am a kindling perfectionist, and the guard grows bored.

  “Pick up the pace,” he murmurs before walking down the hall.

  I make for the desk as fast as I’m able and pull open the middle drawer, my fingers grasping the locked box. The weight’s right. It must be inside. And here I was afraid Faust had taken the thing with him on his trip to town. The doctor is a bit vain and bought a new suit which he must pick up before Miss Honeycutt’s visit in the morning. After eating supper at the hotel, he’s taking a tour of their best room to ensure that everything is ready for his esteemed guest. Faust isn’t expected back at the asylum until quite late, in fact, and I’m counting on it. If he’s filled with rich food and wine, he’ll want to see his pillow instead of the Book.

  Lifting the statue of Plato from its place on the bookshelf, I remove the tiny key that rests under it. I’ve heard the doctor hide it there during therapy sessions. This small tool unlocks the metal box, bringing its contents into my possession. But the Book is too large for the pocket in my drawers. I tear a strip off my ragged shawl, pull down the front of my shift, and tie the book to the top of my abdomen, where my breasts used to be before my curves diminished and became gaunt planes. Then I draw the shift back up and wrap the shawl around my middle.

  Titus stops walking the hall—around the general area of the men’s room. Lifting my chin, I gauge the distance. Maybe fifty feet or so to the south? The guard
doesn’t step all the way into the water closet. I hear him polishing something on his uniform, primping in front of the mirror. He mutters about a stain on his lapel and pulls a towel off the rack. Oh, please. Stay where you are for another moment, won’t you? I’m not quite done here.

  The metal box feels too light. What to do? Faust will know the Book is missing if he touches it. Turning to the wood bin, I reach inside, taking out a pile of old papers that the doctor uses for starting fires. I lift my hand, balancing the paper stack against the heft of a book.

  It will have to do. I’ve run out of time.

  The papers go into Faust’s box, and I close the lid, locking it with a soft snick and shutting the desk drawer. Plato finally gets his key back. I then drop on my knees by the fireplace and shove the last of the wood into the bin, hoping it looks neat enough.

  As the meal bell tolls, Titus wanders back to the door and looks inside. “Let’s go, princess. Supper’s on.”

  He pulls me to a standing position. For a heart-stopping moment, I worry that the Book will fall out from under my shift. I hug my chest in alarm, pressing the leather-bound rectangle into my flesh, but the evidence of the doctor’s crimes remains hidden.

  I’d be dead if it didn’t.

  “We can do this, can’t we?” Anna Loveridge whispers, her voice trembling.

  I give her an affirmative squeeze. “Of course,” I wish I could say. “All is well, dear Anna. We simply cannot fail.”

  My hand rests on her shoulder as we creep through the empty corridor in the Violent Unit. Water drips steadily and the atmosphere smells of mold, in addition to a hundred other things that are far worse. Cold air pushes against my skin, and I start to shake. Only men on this side of the compound. How many, I wonder? A few of them mutter in sleep, turn in their beds, snore. It is well past midnight, and Hershel Watts is waiting around the corner to open the door for us in exchange for the necklace and pearls. Hopefully, he won’t guess this is the end of his secret salary and imagines that an inmate with deep pockets still resides at Ironwood, planning another job for the future.