by Ward Parker
He waded slowly through the muck into slightly deeper water and emerged from the trees where the Houtani were feeding. He raised his hand in greeting.
The Houtani had no eyes as far as Follett could tell and they did not turn toward him or acknowledge him in any way. However, those closest to him slowly moved away from him as they continued to feed.
Determined, Darryl approached one that was slow to withdraw and spoke to it. Then he gently touched one of its branches.
The Houtani jerked upright as the branch Darryl had touched broke off and dropped into the water. The air erupted in clicks as if Follett were surrounded by a hundred telegraph operators. The water around the Houtani bubbled and then, like a herd of panicked cattle, they fled into the mangroves with awkward jerky motions. They moved so quickly Follett could barely register what happened. They just disappeared, and the scene was back to normal with a mangrove forest lining a placid lagoon in the gentle light of a half moon.
And yet leaves fell from the real mangroves as if they were weeping.
* * *
As they walked back to the hotels, tears streamed from Darryl’s eyes, streaking his fur.
“We used to be friends, but they fear me now,” he said, fighting for composure. “I don’t understand. They used to always welcome me.”
Follett said nothing as Darryl struggled with his emotions.
“It’s as if…they sense something corrupt in me.” He stopped and grabbed Follett’s arm, pleading with his eyes. “Do they sense that I’ve been tainted by something evil? Or that I’m becoming evil?”
“This ghost, or entity, that speaks to you when no one’s around—”
“I told you I don’t want to talk about that.”
“I’m not saying this entity could make you evil, but perhaps it led you to think you are and the Houtani sense your emotions.”
“They do sense something evil in me, like a disease.”
He wiped his eyes, and Follett followed him back toward the beach along a narrow path through a cluster of gumbo-limbo trees. In trying to soothe Darryl’s feelings, he had avoided facing his own, and the awe of seeing an undiscovered species was finally setting in. He couldn’t believe that in all the years of human history, no one has ever reported seeing the Houtani. That made him briefly warm to Darryl’s assertion that they were fantastical creatures, fairies as it were.
But he quickly rejected that notion. There had to be a rational theory to explain the Houtani. Though this past week had been filled with one unexplainable phenomenon after another.
“Darryl, tell me, are the Houtani supernatural creatures?”
“Supernatural is a term you men of science use to dismiss anything that doesn’t fit your view of the world and therefore can’t be real. The Houtani are real—you saw them yourself. They follow the laws of nature, but also the laws of magic. They are not fully of your world because they inhabit other worlds as well. Like me, they are other.”
“You used that term before. What do you mean by ‘other’?”
“I’m an outsider, a freak of nature, a monster. Society doesn’t accept me. And I also have these abilities, such as telepathy and telekinesis. I, like the Houtani, am impossible to classify. So we aren’t allowed in your modern world with its smug certainty that everything can be explained with science.”
“But everything can be explained with science,” Follett said with passion. “We just haven’t figured it all out yet.”
“And the things the modern world can’t explain it refuses to acknowledge or categorizes it as folklore or fiction. Have you read that new novel Dracula by Bram Stoker?”
“That book about a vampire? I’ve heard of it. It has become quite a popular book. But no, I rarely read fiction.”
“Do you believe in vampires?”
“Of course not.”
“Now that you’ve seen the Houtani, you can still insist that vampires and other supernatural creatures don’t exist?”
“But vampires are just folktales, like werewolves and ghouls and the Wendigo.” Follett was afraid of the direction this conversation was taking.
“Yes, you’re a man of science in the very modern year of 1902, when the beliefs of centuries ago are derided as mere superstition. But I have seen a vampire with my own eyes.”
“Darryl, you’re a very imaginative young man.”
“A few years ago in New York City. I was in Central Park at night, roaming about as you know I love to do. The vampire was attacking an unemployed man sleeping in the park. The monster appeared to be starving and was so intent in his feeding that he didn’t notice me. After all, I can move about much more stealthily than the average human.”
“You saw a man being attacked and you imagined the attacker was a vampire.”
“I know there is no way I can convince you it was a vampire. Not in this day and age. Monsters can only exist outside the fringes of today’s society. There is no place for monsters in a society that worships science and wealth and is all about rigid conformity. The freaks with physical defects are the only monsters your society can deal with. By pitying or mocking them.”
“It’s not my society.”
“Well it’s certainly not mine. I was rejected by human society the moment I was born. The creatures you saw tonight—they are of my society. At least they were before I was rejected by them, too.”
“Don’t speak that way.”
“Doctor, I’ve tried to be strong my entire life and resist wallowing in self-pity. But do you know what it’s like to be horrifying to people? To scare them by your appearance alone? If I were merely ugly—how happy I would be to be an ugly fool. But I don’t simply offend the eyes; I shake people to their moral core by upending their definition of what a human is supposed to be.”
“But Darryl, don’t look at your condition as a whole. Break it down into the various defects…”
“I don’t want to hear any more medical claptrap. Do you have any idea how lonely I am? If I had just one friend who was slightly like me, but I have no one. Even some dogs are wary of me. I was simply not meant to be happy. I’m cursed. If I weren’t lucky enough to be born into a comfortable life I would have ended it long ago.”
Follett wanted to cheer him up, but could think of no way other than changing the subject. “I want to thank you for tonight. You’ve taught me a great deal. As a physician I already knew there is an entire world of creatures too microscopic for the average person to see or even know about. But now I’ve learned there is a world of things that we are too blinded by our prejudices or narrow-mindedness to see.”
They had just passed the white frame house that held E.R. Bradley’s gambling resort, when Darryl stopped abruptly and sniffed the air.
“Trouble,” he warned.
A voice rang out behind them.
“Well, I’ll be damned. It’s the freak and the freak doctor.”
Follett turned to see Walter Spence in a rumpled dinner jacket leaning on a black attendant as they moved cautiously toward the Royal Poinciana.
“My God,” Spence said, before retrieving a silver flask from his jacket’s inner pocket and taking a gulp. “You really are a monster. Put on your hood, boy!”
“I left it at home,” Darryl replied. “I didn’t think I’d be seen, as most decent people are not out at this hour.”
Darryl seemed defiant, unlike the cowed way he behaved last time Spence insulted him.
“Most are not, except for people like me and your father, who just lost another portion of your inheritance.”
The attendant tried to shuffle Spence along, but when they moved to pass by, Spence stopped.
“And you, Freak Doctor, what did you do to me in the restaurant?”
“I took your pulse before you passed out from a paroxysm.”
“That’s hogwash, Doc. I ought to—”
“Please come, sir,” the attendant said, struggling to keep Spence away from them and move him to the hotel.
“You’re not
a doctor,” he shouted, twisting in the attendant’s grip, trying to clutch Follett’s collar. “You’re a monster just like this damned hairy ape! You shouldn’t be allowed here.”
Follett turned to look at Darryl. The look of pain in his eyes was unmistakable, even in the darkness.
“He’s not a respectable doctor,” Spence said to no one in particular, before vomiting into a bougainvillea bush.
“That man is a fool and a blatherskite,” Follett said as they walked away.
“If he weren’t so drunk he could have hurt you,” Darryl said. “Let me walk you to your hotel.”
“I’m not yet an old man needing assistance from a young one. I used to do a bit of boxing, you know.”
“However old you are, you can’t see in the dark as well as I can.”
Sure enough, they hadn’t walked far down the Ocean Walk before Darryl’s extraordinary senses alerted them of a new threat.
“Marshal DeBerry is at the hotel. He’s questioning someone. Someone who is very frightened.”
Chapter Nine
Follett and Darryl quickened their pace and soon entered the lighted grounds of the Royal Poinciana. Though it was not yet dawn, a line of pedicabs was already assembling at the main portico, the drivers hoping to earn fares from early rising guests. Follett heard raised voices as they got closer.
“I shouldn’t go any farther,” Darryl said. “I don’t have my hood and don’t want to create a scandal.”
Follett left him standing in the shadows of a sea grape tree and, as he approached the portico, James was shouting: “I don’t care what they say. I didn’t do nothing to her.”
“But you don’t deny seeing her that morning?” Marshal DeBerry asked. He and Dowling had isolated James from the other pedicab drivers.
“I seen her and said good morning to her and I kept on walking. Nothing else.”
“When I questioned you the first time, you said you didn’t see her at all.”
“I guess I didn’t have my memory straight. Who told you this stuff about me?”
“A neighbor. Someone reliable.”
“So I said hello to Emily. That makes me a suspect?”
“Watch your tone, boy,” Dowling said.
“You were seen talking to her for some time,” DeBerry said. “More than just a ‘hello,’ I’d imagine. You were the only person seen with her before she disappeared so, yes, that makes you a suspect. Now what about Angelica Norris, the Angel Worm?”
“What about her?”
“I told you to watch your tone,” Dowling said angrily.
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
“When I brought Doc Follett to see her. That’s the only time I ever saw her. She’s gone, too?”
“We can talk about it at the calaboose.”
“You can’t just haul me in. I got my rights.”
“In your own sweet dreams, you do,” Dowling said, snickering.
He grabbed James by the shoulder and turned him around, pressing his chest against the lower wall of the portico and holding him there while DeBerry put handcuffs on him.
“My wagon is at the end of the bridge, if you don’t mind,” DeBerry said.
“Of course not,” Dowling replied as he harshly yanked James by the collar and pushed him along the driveway toward the bridge.
Follett was saddened. He rather liked James, and supposed he could be innocent, but it did look damning to be a male seen with Emily Bishop shortly before she disappeared. He wondered if anyone had seen James with Angelica as well. He returned to where Darryl was waiting to recount what had happened.
“I could hear everything that was said,” Darryl replied. “As you know from your testing, I have quite good hearing. I also read this man James’ thoughts and he is entirely innocent.”
“Are you certain?”
“He was replaying his memories of the morning and it’s true that he only said a few words to the woman and then continued on to the hotel. He never saw her again and has no idea what happened to her. And he’s telling the truth about the Angel Worm, too.”
“We should tell the marshal.”
“You actually think he would believe me?”
“Well, it’s a start, isn’t it? Let me try to catch him.”
Follett jogged around the hotel to intercept DeBerry before he got to his wagon. He passed along the railway siding beside the hotel where the richest guests kept their private railcars. He ran past the Vanderbilts’, the Astors’ and Dr. Greer’s cars but then stopped short. The marshal, Dowling and James were beside the stairs of a side entrance to the hotel. Dowling was about to lead James up the stairs against DeBerry’s objections.
“But you have no right to—”
“This is Flagler property, Marshal. Flagler’s the king here.”
“I’m an officer of the law.”
“In West Palm, sure. This isn’t your jurisdiction.”
“The crime occurred in West Palm Beach. You have no right to hold him.”
“This is my jurisdiction. If I apprehended the coon on my own, it would be standard procedure to interrogate him until you took custody of him. I’m going to interrogate him now and then you can have him.”
“What is this really about?”
“This is about the safety of our guests,” Dowling said, giving James a shove up the steps. “He works on this property and I’ve got to know if he’s committed any crimes here.”
He pushed James the rest of the way up the stairs and through the door.
“Well, you’re not interrogating him out of my presence,” DeBerry said, following him inside.
Follett waited for a few minutes then realized he had no idea how long it would take. He returned to where he had left Darryl but his patient was gone, probably because it was too light out to be seen in public without his hood. So Follett paid a pedicab driver three dollars to come get him when the marshal left the hotel. Then he went inside to bathe and change and then head to breakfast with a stomach grumbling loudly.
After breakfast, he purchased the local newspapers, The Tropical Sun and Palm Beach Daily News, and sat on a rocking chair on the veranda. In a few minutes he was interrupted by the pedicab driver.
“Mister, the marshal leaving now.”
“Thank you.”
As Follett hurried from the porch, the pedicab driver called after him.
“They hurt James real bad.”
Follett jogged around the side of the hotel and caught up with DeBerry and Dowling, who were carrying James to DeBerry’s wagon. James’ shirt was bloody and his limping indicated injuries on his feet.
“What the hell did you do to him?”
“Doc, this is none of your concern,” Dowling said.
DeBerry turned to Follett, his lips tight with anger.
“I had nothing to do with this,” he said. “And I had no legal authority to stop it.”
“Oh, come on, Marshal,” said Dowling. “Didn’t you enjoy it just a little?”
“Shut up, Dowling.”
“Let me examine him,” Follett said.
“You can do that at the calaboose,” Dowling said.
Follett helped the two men hoist James into the back of the wagon.
“I’ll come along to guard the prisoner,” Dowling said. “Wouldn’t want an admitted murderer to escape.”
“Admitted?” Follett asked.
“He confessed,” DeBerry said. “Under duress.”
“Mr. Dowling, why did you do this?”
He smiled at Follett smugly and said, “For you and the other guests. It was scandalous that suspicion should fall upon the quality folks who come here. It was time to find the true perpetrator and put a stop to the calumny against Mr. Flagler’s guests.”
James hung his head in shame and agony. He didn’t look up once as the wagon rode away.
* * *
“Did Mr. Dowling force you to confess against your will?” Follett asked James in the jail cell as he spread salve upon an a
brasion on the man’s jaw.
“Doc, don’t you interfere,” Marshal DeBerry said from his desk nearby. “Just stay out of it.”
James remained silent, except for a hiss of inhaled breath from pain. His visible areas were largely free of injury, but his torso, buttocks and feet were another story. They were purplish and brown with contusions. Follett found two broken ribs which he protected as best he could with bandages wrapped around the patient’s chest. There was little else he could do.
“You don’t owe anything to Dowling,” Follett said to DeBerry as he left the calaboose, the two-story wooden building with a few jail cells on the ground floor and space upstairs that served as a diminutive city hall.
“This whole town owes its existence to Mr. Flagler. I already told you how I feel about that. We have to tiptoe around power on the way to finding justice.”
The hack Follett had hired was waiting outside and he climbed into the buggy. He wanted to speak to the people in the neighborhood where the families of the two abducted females lived because he questioned if DeBerry had done a thorough job, even if the people had been willing to speak with him. He worried that so soon after the abduction white people would not be warmly welcomed there. Perhaps Wilson, the black driver, would serve as his ambassador. Wilson, who was used to taking wealthy hotel guests on tours of the area in his horse and buggy, required an ample cash tip when he learned of their destination.
As they rode up Poinsettia Street away from downtown, they came upon gang of drunken white men, railroad or construction workers, who appeared to be patrolling the area. A couple of them carried ax handles.
“You oughtn’t be headin’ up in there,” one shouted to Follett. “The Negroes are all agitating.”