by Ward Parker
“Please call me Frank. And I’m just letting my head clear a bit. I think it damaged the calaboose wall during the little dust-up with Darryl.”
“Do you need medical treatment?”
“I’m perfectly fine. Please have a seat and enjoy this nice weather with me.”
She smiled and sat down. She wore a wide-brimmed, dark brown velvet hat, a white shirtwaist, and ankle-length brown wool skirt. Her teeth seemed impossibly white against her tanned skin. High society ladies seldom allowed themselves a tan, even at beach resorts. The fingers of her left hand strayed toward her mouth but she quickly dropped her hand to her lap.
“Despite all that’s happened, the beauty of Florida is really starting to grow on me,” Follett said. “How long have you lived here?”
“Most of my life. My father was one of the earliest settlers of this area. He brought Mother and us down from St. Paul in eighty-five and filed a homestead for land before West Palm Beach even existed. I was eight at the time and my little sister was six.”
“You must have had to endure primitive conditions.”
“An understatement. We lived for a year in a shack made from palmetto fronds—this after leaving a fine home with all the modern conveniences in Minnesota. Then Father built a small two-bedroom house from wood salvaged from shipwrecks. The mosquitoes were so bad back then we kept a broom by the door to brush them off you when you came inside.
“Father was a quartermaster in the war and said he was disgusted by all the war profiteering he saw. He had a dream of leaving behind the materialistic modern world and taking up the simple life down here to grow pineapples, tomatoes, and oranges. The ‘honor of hard, honest toil,’ he called it.
“Well, it didn’t take too many years, and crop failures thanks to unexpected winter freezes, to convince him he wasn’t a very good farmer.” She chuckled. “So he opened a dry goods store on Clematis Street in downtown West Palm and bought a schooner to ship freight to the communities around Lake Worth and the Indian River to the north. He was much better as a merchant than a farmer! He built us a larger, two-story home with views of the lake and, once they built it, of your hotel on the other shore. I helped Father for a while doing the bookkeeping until I went to teachers’ college.
“But look at me, prattling on forever about myself,” Diana said. “Tell me your story, Doctor.”
“Oh, there’s not much to tell. My father was a general practitioner in Brooklyn. I decided to follow in his footsteps, went to medical school in Philadelphia, and eventually became a surgeon in New York. I made the foolish mistake of volunteering as a contract surgeon for the Army and ended up in the Philippines. After that, I decided I was finished with surgery and went into research instead.”
“I imagine the war must have been traumatizing.”
Follett smiled bitterly. “Indeed. It had a deleterious effect on my performance in surgery when I returned to New York. I couldn’t accept that.”
“Of course,” she said. “Um, I’ve been told that you’re unmarried. Is that correct?”
“Yes, I’m a widower.”
“I’m so sorry.”
An awkward pause followed. He wanted to ask her if she was spoken for, but he didn’t know the right way to do it. His social graces had deteriorated over the years since his wife died and he exiled himself from society.
“I want you to know,” she said, “that I do appreciate you trying to help Darryl. I was a bit suspicious at first. I admit I’m overprotective of him.”
“I don’t blame you. The abnormal are so mistreated in our society.”
“When I graduated from teachers’ college, I took a position as an assistant teacher in Tallahassee. There was a boy in the fifth grade who stopped coming to school. He had trouble reading but was otherwise intelligent. I visited his family’s farm and offered to tutor him for free, but his father said his son was too stupid. Was good for nothing but manual labor, he told me. I spent some time with the child anyway. I realized he struggled with reading and writing because he had word blindness.”
“Ah, yes,” Follett said, “that’s a congenital defect. Also known as dyslexia.”
“When I explained this to him, his face lit up with hope, tears running down his cheeks, and he said, ‘you mean I’m not stupid? I can be somebody someday?’ My heart nearly burst. I came up with some exercises that helped him read a little better and he went back to school. I changed his life for the better. And that’s my inspiration, day after day. I want to make a difference like that with Darryl and see him live a normal life.”
“And so do I. Unfortunately, this turn of events will set back everything we’ve done.”
“Darryl’s psychotic episode—you at first described him as being possessed. Tell me exactly what you meant.”
He looked at her and saw the earnestness in her brown eyes. He felt like he could be open with her.
“Remember the voice you said you’ve heard coming from his room? I heard it myself.”
“How?”
“Before Darryl disappeared yesterday, he went into a trance-like state. I was observing him, but somehow I was also connected with him so that I could see what he was seeing and hear what he heard. And he spoke with someone—something—that he knew, that he had spoken with previously. This entity tried to convince him to become evil.”
“Yes! That’s the voice from his room.”
“When Darryl refused, this entity appeared to try to take over his body. But before you rush to conclusions, it’s quite possible that Darryl was simply hallucinating.”
“What do you believe?”
“The person I saw leaving the jail cell had Darryl’s body, but it was not Darryl. Whether the cause was psychological or supernatural, I don’t know. Either way, someone was killed as the result. And it was my fault.”
“How can you say that?”
“I was testing his extrasensory abilities, for no good reason, and it precipitated these events.”
She studied his face for a moment. “Whatever made you such a haunted man, Frank?”
He looked at her confused. “What do you mean?”
“The more I get to know you, the more secret burdens you seem to carry. Haunted by something. And I mean no criticism; it makes you more mysterious. Perhaps someday you’ll feel you know me well enough to share with me some stories and take a bit of that weight from your shoulders.”
He held her eyes to make sure she was sincere. She appeared to be.
“I will, I’m sure of it. Someday,” he said.
* * *
He couldn’t stop the memories from bubbling up, as he sat there on the bench after Diana left. It came back to him with every painful detail. January 26, 1898. That was the day his happiness ended.
When that day began, he was going to be a father for the first time. It was all that was on his mind as he entertained Harold Greer in his parlor while Isabel gave birth upstairs. Though both men were physicians, they left the work to the obstetrician Follett had summoned. It would have been unseemly for either of them to be up there.
He remembered the anemic winter afternoon light fading and having to turn on an electric lamp in order to try to read a newspaper, if only he could concentrate. A horse and carriage clopped by outside on Charles Street. Greer fiddled with his pocket watch and ignored the tray of tea set out for them.
In the New York Times was an article describing the arrival of the battleship USS Maine in Havana Harbor on the previous day. The article said the occasion was marked by the Spanish in the fort and by a German warship with the firing of salutes and the usual naval courtesies.
“Such a tiny article about Cuba,” said Greer. “The story takes up most of the front pages of the Journal and the World. You’re reading the only newspaper in the city that hasn’t become hysterical trying to drive us into war.”
“That’s precisely why I’m reading it,” Follett said.
“But you agree it’s a noble cause, don’t you? The Cuban people ha
ve suffered long enough. They deserve the opportunity to flourish in American-style democracy. Why, it’s our destiny to liberate them!” He paused, as if realizing he sounded a bit pompous. “Don’t you agree?”
“I’m just a physician. Politics are beyond my purview.”
Isabel’s scream made them both flinch.
“Isn’t he giving her ether?”
“She refused it. She’s afraid of it, with her migraines, high blood pressure, and all, despite the fact I explained it should be fine.”
“Even Queen Victoria used chloroform at the birth of her last child.”
Follett ignored him and tried to listen to what was going on upstairs. He heard a lot of walking about on the wooden floor above.
“Back to Cuba—interesting coincidence. I recently examined a patient who happens to be the grandson of possibly the biggest advocate of going to war.”
“Henry Cabot Lodge?”
“No, Benjamin Stockhurst. He’s the real power behind the pro-war movement.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Of course you have. Chemical manufacturer. Richer than Croesus, with full access to President McKinley. And, of course, to Roosevelt, Lodge, and the rest of those warmongering jingoists. Anyway, the grandson is severely deformed. I have never seen anything like it. The family was considering surgery to remove two large cutaneous horns—”
“Let’s not discuss this right now.” Why all the rapid footsteps up there?
“Oh, sorry old chap. Yes, completely inappropriate topic at the present. Well,” he cleared this throat, “I spent a lovely three weeks down in Palm Beach. You really must try it. The social high season seems to be growing longer and longer as more people discover the place.”
Follett heard nothing Greer had said, only the frantic footsteps above. Saying nothing, he stood and walked to the stairs.
The voice upstairs was muffled, except for the words, “not breathing.”
He sprinted up the stairs and burst into Isabel’s and his bedroom. The first thing he saw was the blood. Blood was everywhere, on the bed, the floor. And on the sheets that covered Isabel.
A sheet was covering her face.
The doctor and nurse turned toward him, stricken looks on their faces. The nurse held the fluid-streaked baby, its umbilical cord still dangling. The doctor was handing her a towel and she was covering the baby, but not quickly enough to hide the fact that it had only half a head.
A bedpost hit him in the back as he lost balance. He grabbed it, regained his footing and looked again at his wife on the bed.
“My sympathies, Doctor Follett,” the obstetrician said in a thick voice. “We lost them both. Your wife suddenly hemorrhaged, and we couldn’t stop it. And the child—”
“Deformed,” Follett heard himself say.
“Dead at birth. Nothing could be done.”
It was a boy. Would have been a boy.
The grandfather clock chimed downstairs, five o’clock. Follett would never forget the sound of those five somber chimes that tolled the end of his world.
Chapter Sixteen
“I don’t normally discuss such matters, but have you gentlemen heard any strange rumors about William Stockhurst?” Follett asked Clemens and Greer. It was after the dinner hours when the ladies had retreated to the hotel parlor and the men were in the bar, the billiard room, or out here on the veranda having a smoke.
“There must be millions of such rumors,” Greer said, laughing at his own joke and watching Clemens to see if he laughed, too.
“You’ll have to specify which category of rumor,” Clemens said. “Scandalous, scurrilous, or sensational?”
“Well,” Follett said, embarrassed, “about his sexual preferences. He has this reputation of a ladies’ man, but I just don’t see that in him.”
“Ah, I understand,” Clemens said before puffing on his cigar.
“I don’t travel in the same circles as he,” Greer said. “But the impression I’ve gotten was that Stockhurst prefers as much sexual debauchery as he can get from whoever is willing to provide it—of whatever age or race. Or gender.”
Clemens chuckled, which made Greer smile in victory.
“I had never met him before his reception for me,” Clemens said, “but I’ve heard similar tales circulating in New York. I always assumed he preferred men, though, of course, it is none of our business.”
“Though it is in society’s interest to discourage degeneracy,” Greer said.
“Actually, I have a professional interest in this,” Follett said. “If it turns out that Stockhurst isn’t Darryl’s biological father.”
Both men stared at him.
“If so, I would like to find out who the father is. It would answer a lot of questions pertaining to my research, but it might also give us some insight into Darryl’s hysterical behavior.”
“I don’t see what the point is,” Greer said. “He’s a monster and a murderer with no potential for rehabilitation. On that note, I bid you gentlemen adieu. I’m going to do a little work before I retire for the night.”
“Do you think the young man is responsible for the abductions or not?” asked Samuel Clemens after Greer left. He emitted a series of quick, short puffs of smoke from his cigar like a locomotive struggling up a hill.
“No, I don’t believe it,” Follett said. “His outbreak of violence occurred after what I can only describe as a hysteric state with the characteristics of demonic possession, for lack of a proper medical diagnosis.”
He then told Clemens what had happened when Darryl attempted to contact Isabel, including the visit through the strange landscape and the ferryman spirit wanting to enter Darryl.
“Hmm. Certainly sounds like a possession to me,” Clemens said.
“Whether it is or not, the normal Darryl wouldn’t murder anyone. I think he was framed by the real murderer. Someone easily could have put Angelica’s blanket in his closet. For that matter, this person could have worn a hood when he took his victims, knowing that if he were seen he’d be mistaken for Darryl.”
“Or do you simply refuse to believe in his guilt? When you factor in what happened at the jail—”
“No. These are two different types of crimes and motives. I’m horrified by what he did at the jail, but he was attempting escape which is entirely different than coldly hunting, kidnapping, and murdering people. If you had been there, you would have seen that he was in a state of extreme delirium.”
“The public doesn’t care about his mental state.”
“Exactly. If he is convicted of murder, he will be executed. Even if the jury was biased against colored victims, I doubt they would let him escape the noose. Even all the money of the Stockhurst family couldn’t achieve that.”
“But that money could save him in the deputy’s killing?” Clemens chuckled. “That was a rhetorical question, Doctor, I know the answer is yes. But if young Stockhurst survives, I should like to interview him in depth. I suspect that even in his agitated state that he’s more interesting than most of the people I have met.”
“He is.”
“Whether he’s the abductor or not.”
They sat in silence. Clemens lit another cigar and as the flame illuminated his face it revealed deep sorrow hidden in its shadows.
“I wish to find Angelica,” Clemens said. “If she’s still alive, that is.”
“Because of Susy?”
“I miss her so much. It has all come back to me now, such a weight of grief.”
“I feel the same way about my Isabel. Is it selfish that we want to rescue Angelica because of her value to us?”
“Not all noble acts are inspired by noble motivations,” Clemens said. “All that matters is that we save her.”
“Well, Mr. Twain. Finally back from Europe, I see.”
Follett turned his head to find John Jacob Astor and Walter Spence standing just behind their row of rocking chairs.
“No, please don’t get up,” Astor said, a thin man with a ligh
t-brown mustache and elegant evening wear. “I just wanted to say hello. We’re on our way to Bradley’s to lose some more money.”
Spence nodded to Clemens and glared at Follett. He looked like he was going to say something but thought better of it.
“Enjoy your evening, gentlemen,” Clemens said. “At least you’ll be trying to, unlike the two of us here.”
Astor laughed and they went their way.
“You seem to know all the blue-bloods,” Follett said.
“The dear, dear price of fame, I’m afraid.”
They sat a bit longer and then Clemens excused himself to retire for the night. Follett slowly rocked his chair and tried to clear his head of the images of the decapitated deputy. The lamps on the veranda were extinguished in that sudden, jarring way of electric lights. He realized it must have gotten late and that he had been the only person on the porch for a while. It left him in a comfortable darkness, except for the few lights along the garden path below. One by one, the lights in bedroom windows began to disappear making the night even darker. The hotel itself felt as if it were preparing for slumber, with the slight creak of settling wood and a growing silence from within. All was quiet except for the call of some waterfowl he didn’t recognize and the chirping of crickets from the trees. The scent of confederate jasmine drifted from the vines growing on the latticework beneath the veranda. It was time for his mind to wander.
He watched a sapling sway in the breeze, its shadow sliding back and forth along the ground. The shadow looked like that of a woman dancing by herself to a tune in her head and for the briefest moment he thought it was her. And even after he caught his mistake, he held onto the image of her, remembering her dancing by herself just like this along a path in Central Park one night as she hummed “After the Ball.” Back when they were young and death was something that happened to other families or to someone else’s patient but certainly not to a vibrant twenty-four-year-old who was so full of life that he felt as if he grew younger every time he kissed her. Her goodness had left a mark upon this earth and that was why he kept imagining he was seeing her. Or so he tried to convince myself. It seemed, however, that her soul had become lost on its way to Heaven, which was a crime for a soul such as hers.