The Doctor Digs a Grave

by Robin Hathaway

  The next few minutes seemed interminable. Fenimore alternately looked over his shoulder and up at the window. Thoughts of losing his medical license and ruining the life of a minor filled his mind. By the time Horatio reappeared at the window, Fenimore was furnishing a twin cell for the two of them at Graterford State Prison. Horatio beckoned. Fortunately, Fenimore had remembered to keep his foot firmly planted on the bottom rung. Otherwise, he would have had to repeat the whole lassoing routine. He mounted the steps. Halfway up, he glanced down and saw the makeshift rope and shopping bag. What if a security guard came by and spotted them? Cautiously retracing his steps, he gathered up the rope. Careful to keep his foot on the bottom rung, he reached for the shopping bag. With an awkward lunge, he managed to throw the bag and the rope over the side of the Dumpster without letting go of the fire escape.

  “What took so long?” Horatio helped him over the sill.

  Fenimore explained.

  “But what about your clothes?” Horatio was appalled at such waste.

  “I’ll pick them up on our way out.”

  Inside, the room was completely dark, and the only sounds were a series of scurries and squeaks. The smell of animal feces mingled with the usual chemical odors of a medical laboratory. Horatio, whose eyes had had time to adjust to the dark, led Fenimore through a maze of counters and tables covered with equipment and cages. He stopped abruptly before a tall, bulky object. Like a blind man, Fenimore ran his hands over it. The surface was smooth and cool, interrupted here and there by what felt like links of thick metal chain. As his hands moved on, there seemed to be more than one chain. Slowly regaining his vision, he discerned a huge refrigerator wrapped snugly in several layers of chain, fastened with padlocks ranging in size from a pocket watch to a large alarm clock.

  At least they had found the right lab. Only Applethorn would indulge in such prehistoric security measures. His peculiar brand of paranoia could not be satisfied by an invisible electronic system. He needed something more tangible, something he could touch and see. Lucky for them. Horatio had had more experience with padlocks than with sophisticated electronic security systems.

  Horatio had already begun to work on the most formidable of the locks. With a heartening click, it snapped open. He moved on to the next. Convinced that Horatio had the situation in hand, Fenimore passed the time by moseying around the laboratory. He examined equipment and peered into cages. The first two cages were filled with mice, each with an electrode attached to its side. In the next, he found a white rat making its way easily through a plastic maze. The last two cages—the source of the loudest squeaks—held half a dozen small monkeys. Engrossed in their quaint antics, he was startled by a loud hiss from Horatio. The monkeys, startled too, began rushing frantically around their cages, screeching and chattering.

  “What’s up?”

  The boy was standing by the open window, looking down.

  Fenimore joined him. What he saw was not reassuring. Two men, dressed in security officer uniforms, were staring up at the window. Fenimore’s eyes flicked to the refrigerator. One chain remained intact. Horatio went back to work. When the chain clanked to the floor, Fenimore opened the door. Inside the lighted interior were racks of tubes in neat rows. Fenimore removed the top rack. By the light from the refrigerator he checked the dates on the labels. The top rack held the most recent samples. He began scanning the names.

  Horatio returned to his post at the window. Careful to keep well out of sight, he watched the action below. There was only one man now. Could the other one be on his way up to the lab?

  “Step on it, Doc,” he whispered.

  Farmer. Fedder. Field … Fenimore grabbed the tube. Taking an empty tube from his pocket, he removed the plastic cap. He took the cap off Applethorn’s tube and tipped it, intending to transfer some of its contents into his tube. Nothing happened. He peered into the tube. Frozen solid. What he had assumed was a refrigerator was actually a freezer. Now what? He didn’t dare steal the whole tube. Applethorn, or one of his assistants, would surely notice that it was missing and send up an alarm the next morning.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He told him.

  “No sweat,” He came over and offered him a cigarette lighter.

  “You smoke?”

  “Nah. But it’s cool to carry one.”

  “Sorry. It won’t help. The tube’s plastic. It’ll melt or burn. But I have an idea.” He went over to one of the stainless steel sinks and turned on the hot water. He added some cold to make it lukewarm. If it was too hot, it might upset the delicate chemical balance of the blood serum. He let the stream of water play on the tube. It would take longer this way, but eventually it would defrost. The seconds ticked by. The only sounds were of the water running and the animals scurrying to and fro. Anxious, Horatio went back to the window.

  The guard below seemed restless. He kept glancing up at the window. Horatio was afraid he might try to climb the fire escape. “Hurry, Doc!”

  Gradually, frustratingly slowly, the serum finally dissolved. Fenimore poured a small amount into his tube, capped both tubes, returned Applethorn’s to its place in the rack, and slipped the other into his pocket. He shut the freezer door. Horatio gave up his surveillance and came to help rebind the freezer. They were snapping the last padlock in place when they heard footsteps. They looked around. The room had three doors. Fenimore tried the one nearest him. Locked. It probably led to Applethorn’s office. The second door opened. In the glow of Horatio’s lighter, they made out a closet full of antique scientific equipment, battered science textbooks, and a skeleton. It was only a teaching chart, but the way it gleamed in the flickering flame … He closed that door and tried the third one. It opened into the hall. The footsteps grew louder. Horatio, who until now had been breathing down his neck, ran over to one of the cages and fiddled with the door. Before Fenimore realized what he was up to, there were monkeys everywhere—climbing, jumping, swinging, running, and chattering. Horatio shoved Fenimore out the door and down the hall, away from the footsteps.

  They ran until they came to a fire door. Fenimore yanked it open. Horatio darted ahead of him, seeming hell-bent on going all the way to the ground floor. A hoarse command from Fenimore stopped him. “There may be a guard at the bottom. We’d better get out on another floor and lie low for a while.”

  Horatio retraced his steps, and they crept out a door marked with a big black 3. The corridor was empty. They turned the corner, and for once Fenimore was grateful for the party in the nurses’ station. As they passed, no one even looked up. Fenimore and Horatio glanced longingly at the bank of elevators but kept going. If there was a guard at the bottom of the fire stairs, there would certainly be one at the bottom of the elevators. Fenimore peered into a room. One patient asleep, the other glued to the television screen. He looked in the next. Empty. He pulled Horatio in after him. There was only one bed, neatly made up, awaiting a new patient. The chances of one coming in at this hour were slim. He sat down on the edge of the bed. Horatio slumped in a chair. The only sound was their quick breathing. While Fenimore caught his breath, he had time to think about Horatio’s daring deed. He would never have thought of letting the monkeys out. His scientific training was too strong. He had too much respect for the trials of academic research. Although the chances of Applethorn coming up with anything of scientific significance were doubtful, those monkeys may have gone through months, even years, of painstaking preparations. And it would take many more years to ready more monkeys for whatever experiments he had in mind. Horatio, of course, had no way of knowing this. And his act had helped them escape. He decided not to waste any more sympathy on Applethorn—or his monkeys.

  “Did you hear that?” Horatio was sitting bolt upright.

  Fenimore listened. A tiny scratching sound. “Must be a mouse.”

  “I thought hospitals were clean.”

  Fenimore didn’t enlighten him on that point.

  More scratching.

  The noise
led Fenimore to the adjoining bathroom. He stepped inside. Afraid to turn on the light, he stood still, listening. It seemed to be coming from the bathtub. He stared into its depths.

  “Cheetcheetcheetcheetcheet.” The shrill cry sent him careening backward into Horatio. Without a thought about being seen or caught, they fled. There had been something primeval in that cry, something harking back to the jungle, before civilization, to an earlier, more primitive time. Fenimore was still shuddering when he reached the fire door. Horatio was right behind him. As he yanked it open, something skittered between their legs. Before dashing down the stairs, the monkey turned and jeered at them.

  On the way home, Fenimore puzzled over how that monkey got from the fifth floor to the third ahead of them. There was only one answer. He must have taken the elevator.

  CHAPTER 27

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 5 (GUY FAWKES DAY)

  Fenimore arrived a few minutes late at the office. He had gone to the hospital early, to see Mr. Liska off. His niece had arrived well in advance of the appointed time for his release, and they had spent an enjoyable half hour trading political jokes. Fenimore had come away with the impression that the assistant district attorney was a thoroughly nice woman and that he was leaving Mr. Liska in very good hands.

  As he entered the office, Mrs. Doyle nodded toward the waiting room. Gracing an old, beat-up easy chair from the Salvation Army was Roaring Wings. He stood up and announced, “I’ve come for my sister.”

  “Come in.” Fenimore waved him into his inner office.

  When the man with the piercing eyes was seated on a straight-backed chair facing Fenimore, he said, “I came to you first, before the police. You are more courteous.”

  “Were they rough on you?” Fenimore’s hackles rose.

  Roaring Wings held up his hand. “I am used to them. Since I was a boy, when they would stop me in the street for no reason, I learned how to handle them. Never fight fire with fire. Always fight fire with water.”

  “Water?”

  “Courtesy. When you are polite to a policeman, he becomes all thumbs. It is like a bucket of cold water. Have you never noticed?”

  “No,” Fenimore said, “but it’s an interesting theory. I’ll try it next time I run a red light.” He couldn’t wait to share this theory with Rafferty.

  Roaring Wings was silent, fixing Fenimore with his eyes.

  Fenimore rearranged some things on his desk. Two pens, a saucer full of paper clips, and a prescription pad changed places.

  “I stayed away three days,” Roaring Wings spoke finally, “time enough for their investigations. Now I am here.”

  “I’ll call Rafferty and tell him.” He reached for the phone. Before dialing, he asked, “Er, have you made arrangements for the removal … ?”

  “Not yet. Later.”

  Fenimore dialed. “Raff? I have Roaring Wings here. Ms. Field’s brother. He would like to collect his sister’s body.” Fenimore nodded to Roaring Wings, to let him know that everything was okay. “I’ll send him right over.” He hung up. “You may collect the body anytime.”

  “‘Collect’?” Roaring Wings repeated, shaking his head. “The English language.” He waved his hand, dismissing it. “For removing a loved one to her final resting place, the Lenape would say, Lap a Gishelamukaong.”

  Fenimore waited for the translation.

  “‘Once more to the Creator.’”

  “Much more suitable.” Fenimore nodded. “The English language has more appropriate words for such a move too. ‘In my father’s house there are many mansions,’” he quoted.

  “Mansions?” Roaring Wings’s tone was derisive.

  “Well, in the newer version ‘mansions’ has been changed to rooms.”

  “Better.” He nodded.

  Fenimore disagreed. He thought the new version reduced heaven to a kind of seedy boardinghouse. But he refrained from saying so.

  The phone rang. Fenimore let Mrs. Doyle answer it. Cupping her hand over the mouthpiece, she called, “It’s young Hardwick.”

  Fenimore lifted the receiver. “Yes, Ted?” As he listened, he glanced warily at Roaring Wings. “Well, there may be some complications. Your fiancée’s brother, Roaring Wings, is here with me now. He’s come for Sweet Grass too.”

  Roaring Wings sat impassively.

  After a minute, Fenimore said, “All right. I’ll tell him,” and replaced the receiver.

  “What is it?”

  “Ted Hardwick wants to talk to you about the burial. He asked if you would please wait. He’s coming right over from the university.”

  Roaring Wings’s eyes swiveled around the room once, before coming to rest on Fenimore. “She’s my sister. I’m the next of kin. It is my right to bury her the way I choose.” His eyes burned into Fenimore’s. “He had his chance—and bungled it.”

  “There’s no proof of that.” He paused. “And Ted loved your sister. It’s only common courtesy to talk to him. Perhaps you could have two ceremonies.”

  The Lenape made an unpleasant noise in the back of his throat, something between a laugh and a grunt.

  For the first time, Fenimore disliked him. “Will you wait?”

  He shrugged.

  Fenimore rose, indicating that their discussion was over and he should return to the waiting room. He did. Fenimore busied himself with desk work and phone calls.

  When Ted arrived, Fenimore offered the two men his office to confer in. Suddenly he felt the need of fresh air. He told Mrs. Doyle he was going for a short walk. Even though it was Guy Fawkes Day, he had no desire to witness any fireworks. When Officer Santino got up from his seat in the corner to follow him, Fenimore wanted to scream. There had been no more threats, no incidents of violence for several days. He must speak to Rafferty tonight about relieving Santino of his post. Surely there were more important duties for such an able policeman to attend to. When Fenimore returned, Roaring Wings had left but Ted was still there. From his dejected countenance, it was obvious who had won the contest.

  “How’d it go?”

  He looked up. “I let him have his way.”

  “Which was?”

  “He’ll take care of all the arrangements. But my family and I and a few friends are welcome to attend the ceremony.”

  “Damned generous,” Fenimore snorted. “When is it?”

  “Tomorrow at ten.”

  He showed his surprise.

  “Well, it’s already been six days, and …”

  “Of course,” Fenimore said hastily.

  Ted got to his feet. “Thanks for your office.” His face showed the strain of the recent interview. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

  “Certainly.”

  He started for the door.

  “And Ted …”

  He turned.

  Fenimore ached to restore Sweet Grass to him, alive and well. “You did the right thing,” he said lamely.

  Fenimore sat down and went through his mail. An envelope from the lab. It had been delivered by messenger, as he had requested. The results of Sweet Grass’s blood serum analysis. A glance told him what he wanted to know. There was enough digoxin in her blood to knock off two horses.

  CHAPTER 28

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 10:00 A.M.

  Fenimore arrived unaccompanied at the gate to Camp Lenape. After a lengthy discussion, he had managed to convince Rafferty that there was no immediate danger to his life or limb. Officer Santino had been given a new assignment, and Fenimore felt a lightness of being he hadn’t experienced since he was a child and was allowed to walk to a friend’s house two blocks away without his mother.

  This morning the imposing iron gate stood open, and several cars were already parked along the drive. One was a glossy limousine the color of onyx. A man in a maroon chauffeur’s livery lounged against the fender, smoking. Fenimore parked his car and nodded to the chauffeur. As he made his way up the drive, he noticed a small female figure ahead of him. She was moving slowly but determinedly. He caught up with her. It
was Myra Henderson, manipulating an aluminum walker.

  “Good morning,” he greeted her.

  She glanced up. “Oh, Doctor. I hate this damned thing!” She shook the shiny implement. “I can’t wait to get back to my cane.

  “It was brave of you to come. Shouldn’t your chauffeur be helping you? Or at least have driven you nearer?”

  “Charles? I told him not to. Can’t stand anyone hanging on to me. And I didn’t want to show up in that ostentatious car. Only keep the damned thing because Charles likes it. Only keep Charles because I can’t drive myself with this damned arthritis.” She shook the walker again, as if it were to blame. She would have toppled if Fenimore hadn’t grabbed her.

  The driveway seemed endless, creeping at this snail’s pace. Fenimore was afraid the ceremony might begin without them. As if reading his thoughts, Mrs. Henderson said gruffly, “You go on. No use both of us being late.” She had barely finished speaking when they rounded the bend and caught sight of the barn.

  “We’re almost there,” he soothed, “and nothing’s started yet. Look at all the people.”

  There were a number of people standing around in clusters eyeing each other awkwardly, the way people do at funerals when the only thing they have in common is the deceased. The Hardwick family formed the largest cluster. Polly spotted them right away and hurried toward them.

  “Oh, you dear thing.” Polly took the elderly woman’s arm, leaving Fenimore to look after the walker. “Isn’t she amazing?” she spoke to him over her shoulder. “Imagine coming all this way with a new hip and barely out of the hospital.”

  Fenimore agreed, looking around for a place to stash the walker. He finally settled on carrying it over one arm. As he approached, he sized up the other guests. The older ones were professorial types, probably colleagues of Sweet Grass and Ted from the university. The younger ones looked like students. Doris was there, looking frail and sad.

  “I say, Fenimore,” Ned hailed him in a hushed tone. “Another accident?” he nodded at the walker.

  Fenimore flushed, remembering his former lie about falling down stairs. “No. I’m guarding it for Mrs. Henderson.”