by Ward Parker
And he thought about the strange creatures whose skeletons they had discovered at the poacher’s camp.
“Darryl,” he said aloud.
He remembered the ferryman from Darryl’s trip to the Underworld. It looked a lot like him and claimed they had a lot in common.
Could it be that Darryl was of another species, or at least a hybrid? He mused that to understand Darryl’s deformities he should have used Occam’s razor: the principle that the simplest hypothesis is often the correct one. Rather than reaching for complex genetic and environmental causes of each of Darryl’s many abnormalities, he should have simply considered that he had inherited the genes of another species. But what respectable physician or researcher could ever do that?
Chapter Nineteen
The train backed slowly across the bridge over Lake Worth, where the water shimmered in purple from the morning sunlight, and pulled in behind the hotel. Follett climbed down onto the platform, dead tired, and trudged toward the hotel past a stream of porters headed to the baggage cars. Passing the spur where the private railcars were parked, he saw Dr. Greer’s valet, Sidney, supervising a porter loading an ornate brass and brown-leather-trimmed wardrobe trunk into Dr. Greer’s car. Follett’s heart sank at the realization that the doctor was leaving Palm Beach.
“Careful, you’re gonna scuff the leather, idiot,” Sidney said.
“Brother, this would be easier if you’d give me a hand,” the porter said.
“I don’t do that kind of work, boy. Not anymore.”
“Sidney, I didn’t know Doctor Greer is leaving already,” Follett said.
“Oh, no, sir.” Sidney broke into a smile. “The doctor isn’t leaving at all. We just shipped his springtime clothing down here.”
“I thought he was already wearing spring clothes.”
Sidney chuckled. His short hair was so white it contrasted with the dark ebony of his face. “No, those were his Florida winter clothes. We’re storing them in here now. I just put his Florida springtime clothes in the wardrobe in his hotel room.”
“Of course, of course. Have a good day.” As Follett walked away, he glanced back and saw Sidney still staring at him.
Sure enough, as Follett passed through the portico, he ran into Dr. Greer coming from the direction of the dining room. He wore a crisp, white suit that accentuated the tallness and lankiness of his frame.
“Wearing white before Memorial Day, Harold?”
“We’re in Florida, must I remind you? Besides, our distinguished author friend has inspired me with this look. He’s been looking for you, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” Follett slapped him on the shoulder as they passed each other, then shook his head at the thought of the incredible amount of clothing the rich brought down here. He dropped off his valise in his room and then traveled the seemingly endless hallways before knocking on Clemens’ door.
“I’m awake, come on in,” he shouted, and as Follett poked his head in said, “Ah, Frank! You made good time.”
“So what happened?”
Clemens was lying in bed in a nightshirt, propped up by several pillows, using the bright sunlight streaming in the window to read The Tropical Sun, the weekly paper from West Palm Beach. Copies of The North American Review, Munsey’s Magazine, and Harper’s Magazine lay scattered atop the bed all around him. He was smoking a cigar and the butts of two others lay in the ashtray on the bedside table. He folded the newspaper and placed it in his lap.
“Firstly, you and William Stockhurst received an invitation—a summons, actually—from Henry Flagler. He requests your presence in his office soonest.”
“That can’t be good.”
“No, but the other news I have is more promising. I had a mental communication with Darryl and I think he’s nearby.”
“A ‘mental communication’?”
“Well, an advanced form of what I call mental telegraphy. Some call it telepathy.”
“You mean you can read minds like Darryl can?”
“No, no, it’s not at all as powerful as that. But sometimes, lately, words have come into my head. Darryl’s, mostly, but I’m trying to develop my acuity—strengthening the mental muscles, as it were.”
“What did he say to you?”
“He didn’t exactly say anything,” Clemens said in a cloud of smoke. “It was the night you were traveling to New York and I was getting ready to retire for the evening. I was at the sink putting tooth powder on my toothbrush, my head empty of any real thoughts, when I suddenly had a vision.”
“A vision?”
“A picture. I was outside in the darkness, looking at a house, peering through palm fronds. It was as if I were looking through someone’s eyes, Darryl’s eyes. Somehow I knew it was Darryl’s perspective.”
Follett shuddered, remembering sharing Darryl’s consciousness during his journey into the Underworld.
“There were lights on in the ground floor,” Clemens continued. “I—Darryl, I mean—crept closer to the house until he was just outside one of the windows. The room inside was a parlor, illuminated by a single electric light. Then a woman walked into the room. It was Miss Strom. She had no idea she was being watched. Then I sensed, through Darryl, fear. He was afraid for Miss Strom. That’s why I think he was connecting with me, to warn me that she is in jeopardy. Then, just as suddenly as it came, the vision was gone, but it left me feeling very unsettled.”
“Believe me,” Follett said, “I understand.”
“So if this vision was not just my imagination, Darryl is still in the area.”
“From whom is Miss Strom in danger?”
“Why, from Darryl, of course. He was apparently warning me during a moment of lucidness when he wasn’t completely ruled by that demon.”
“As a doctor, I’m still troubled by calling it a demon. There has been much written about a rare mental disorder called dissociation of the personality; in affect, multiple personalities exist in the same person.”
“You mean like Stevenson’s tale of Jekyll and Hyde?”
“Exactly.”
Clemens said, “Then he may have had this disorder for years, albeit not as extreme as now. If so, could he not have committed other crimes when under the influence of the malevolent personality?”
“Perhaps. Where are you going with this?”
“The abductions. DeBerry told me the Stockhursts have come to Palm Beach with Darryl throughout the entire timespan of the crimes. We really can’t rule him out.”
“As much as it pains me to say, I have to agree. Everything now has become complicated by some very perplexing information I learned in New York.”
“Yes?”
“It appears that Darryl might be genetically not entirely human,” Follett said gravely, expecting Clemens to laugh at him.
“Yes, of course,” Clemens said. “I suspected that all along.”
* * *
Benjamin Stockhurst stood on the bridge of the Wanderer, his two-thousand-ton steamship that was perhaps the largest private yacht in the nation. Of late he had been using it for humanitarian missions instead of pleasure. Of course, the word “humanitarian” didn’t completely apply to this current mission since the recipients of his beneficence were only half human.
The ship was anchored in Biscayne Bay, south of the new town of Miami. It was in as shallow water as the ship’s draft would allow, but the mangrove shoreline was still a long way off in the shallow bay. Full darkness had finally descended and with his keen night vision he saw the first tender detach from the dark line of the shore as it approached the Wanderer. Mixed in with the salt air was the sulfurous smell of muck from the mangroves.
The approaching tenders were small steamboats, the kind locals used in the shallow bays and rivers. Two boatloads of the stranded were all that could be rounded up—the others presumably impossible to track down or preferring to remain in Florida. Once the passengers were aboard and the tenders stowed, the Wanderer would make one more stop and then leave on the
tediously long journey down around Cape Horn and west to the Philippines.
They needed to hurry. He held a telegram from his secretary in New York, relayed to the ship’s wireless equipment. It said that a doctor had come to the office with questions about Darryl and that one of the company’s private detectives reported the same doctor had visited Stockhurst’s daughter-in-law.
Inquiries into Darryl’s lineage, into his biology, were simply not permitted. If there was anything Stockhurst feared it was public scrutiny, especially now. The current mission was too delicate to risk exposure.
“You sent for me, sir?”
It was Wiley, one of his assistants, the not-too-bright but fiercely loyal son of one of the elite members of the clan. Like Stockhurst, he was a cral currently in human form.
“I need you to go ashore to the Royal Palm Hotel in town. They have telephones there. I need you to call Pritchard and tell him the doctor who’s been making inquiries about me and my grandson needs to be silenced. Do not send a telegram; I can’t have a paper trail. Then get back here as quickly as you can.”
Pritchard, a human and chief of security, didn’t need to be told how to silence this over-inquisitive doctor. He had plenty of methods for taking care of spies from rival companies, whistleblowers from within and landowners reluctant to sell their land for chemical mining operations. Pritchard’s methods were extraordinarily effective, and, at times, lethal.
The first of the tenders came up alongside the Wanderer, tying up to the gangway lowered by the larger vessel. Soon Stockhurst was looking down at a dozen or so of the stranded walking the steep incline into the ship. They looked like Darryl, but their ratio of bestial to human features varied. All walked on two legs and were covered in brown to black fur. None wore clothing, of course. Most were quite tall, over six feet, if not seven. About half had small horns on their heads like Darryl. Despite their thick fur, their gender was easily apparent. They shuffled with a hesitant gait and looked about warily. Having lived most or all of their lives in the wild, they weren’t experienced with human society as Darryl was.
The largest of the stranded looked up before he entered the ship and stared at Stockhurst with malevolent, yellow eyes. This male had the largest horns of all, curving almost like a ram’s. A magnificent creature such as this would never survive exposure to humans. The humans would be filled with such fear and revulsion their only response would be to kill.
The stranded were so named not only because they were marooned from human society and left to fend for themselves in the wilderness, but because they were betrayed by biology. They were the result of crals mating with humans and were shunned by both species.
Crals, roughly translated into English as “the People of the Claw,” were shape-shifters and hunted by changing into the form of their prey to fool it, whether that prey was human or another mammal. In recent times, more and more of them, like Stockhurst, thrived in human society where prey was abundant—they hungered for the spoils of unchecked capitalism even more so than human flesh. There was much to prey upon, as long as they remained in human form and kept up the façade of humanness.
As the human population grew, crals discovered other advantages of assuming the human form. One of which was sexual pleasure. Crals had enough genes in common with humans to mate; however, the offspring was stuck in whatever form it was born in. If this was human, the creature could blend into society, though it was still a monster at heart. If it was born in monster form, that was how it stayed.
Which is what happened with Darryl. Stockhurst’s adopted son, William, believing the child was his, insisted on raising him in a society that did not tolerate nonconformity. Most other stranded ended up hiding in the wilderness, alone or with the small, nomadic tribes of others like them.
Crals—racing through the gloomy forests at night like giant wolves on two legs, leaping across ravines and over small trees, snatching up terrified deer or unfortunate humans sleeping by a campfire—inspired stories and legends that spread throughout the Americas. The Native Americans of the farthest north called them the Wendigo. Crals had existed since long before humans ever appeared on the earth.
Any crals spotted by the early Native Americans were most likely full-blooded. When European settlers swarmed through North and South America, there were more sightings of crals and, increasingly as the species had more contact, the stranded. The few settlers who happened to see either form also called them Wendigos or other names, such as Bigfoot, Sasquatch or, in Florida, the Skunk Ape. Some settlers even claimed they had seen werewolves. As the human population grew, crals fed upon them less frequently to prevent detection. Wolves which attacked livestock were completely wiped out in some territories and crals tried to avoid the same fate.
Crals have an immense range; they need territory to hunt and to feed their insatiable desire to roam. In Benjamin Stockhurst’s ears the clang of steel wheels on steel rails spreading inexorably throughout the United States meant crals were losing their grounds to civilization. The western states were ruined for them, he was certain. All that was left were the northern reaches of Canada and Alaska and, until now, his own chosen territory, the subtropical wilderness of Florida. It used to be a paradise of abundant game and fish with humans few and far between. For years he took his adopted son, William, eventually accompanied by his true son, Darryl, on expeditions to Florida. They lived for weeks at a time aboard the smaller yacht he had back then and would fish from the dinghy or go ashore to hunt. But now, thanks to those such as Henry Flagler, the steel rails extended down the Atlantic and Gulf coasts and the central regions of Florida. More pioneers and tourists fanned out into the state like droplets of poison in a tall glass of pristine water. Florida was ruined.
As more humans invaded their habitat, more crals were forced to change shape and enter the human world. But the stranded didn’t have that option. It was time for them to turn to other wild lands, of which few were left in the world. Benjamin Stockhurst, as the elder of his species with the most influence in the human world, took it as his responsibility to shepherd the stranded to safer lands. Thus the invasion and occupation of the Philippines, encouraged by Stockhurst’s money and political connections.
Once both tenders had deposited their passengers on the Wanderer, Stockhurst went below. The passageways were deserted because he had ordered all non-essential crew confined to quarters until the passengers were safe and secure. Most of the crew was human, hand-picked and sworn to secrecy. But the fewer eyes seeing the stranded, the fewer tales told over a glass of whiskey.
The passengers were in a large compartment in the hold filled with straw bedding. The sour smell of wet fur was strong. Stockhurst hated to admit it, but he always felt uncomfortable and awkward in the presence of the stranded. They were the mistakes of his species, the freaks of birth defects. Lacking the shape-shifting abilities of pure-blooded crals, they didn’t have all the knowledge that came from seeing the world from the eyes of other species. And, frankly, Stockhurst found them crude and rough from living in the wild. Still, he was obligated to protect them.
His passengers were examining their temporary home, sniffing in every corner, pacing the perimeter anxiously. Twenty-five pairs of eyes looked at him as he stepped through the door. He welcomed them and told them to relax, while apologizing for the cramped conditions. He communicated all of this telepathically, as all crals can do—even the half-blooded.
Do we have all of you who wanted to come?
No, said the large one with the curved horns. Garan stayed behind, too sick to travel. His mate, too.
Sick? Illness was rare among crals. Being part-human made the stranded vulnerable.
A human disease, we think. He went to find a place to die, but we don’t want to leave him behind.
Garan was a wise, well-respected elder among the stranded. But that’s not why Stockhurst’s heart skipped a beat. Garan was Stockhurst’s first child with a human mother and was a half-brother to Darryl. There were othe
r stranded and full-blooded offspring of his as well, scattered in the wilds of Florida and upstate New York. Though he rarely admitted it to himself, hoping to help them was one of his main motives behind the giant resettlement project.
He needs a human doctor, Stockhurst said to them because there were no cral doctors. We’ll remain anchored here and I’ll send for my personal physician at once.
The problem was that he didn’t actually have a doctor. He had never needed one and feared a doctor would notice physiological anomalies in his shape-shifted body, undermining the utmost secrecy that all crals living among humans depended upon. Where would he find a doctor who could heal the monstrous body of a stranded?
Chapter Twenty
Whitehall was a true palace, a neoclassical monument to wealth. A white, two and one-half story structure with a monumental portico featuring giant Doric columns. Follett had seen similar grandiose homes in Newport, Rhode Island—from the outside, never from within—but this one seemed out of place with its palm trees and tropical landscaping. In fact, it would be more appropriate in our nation’s capital, across from the Washington Monument.
As they walked up the long gravel path to the front steps, Follett spotted a hat poking above the line of the roof and the magnificent coffered stonework of the portico’s ceiling. Climbing the marble steps, he noticed a man wearing a suit with a rifle slung over his shoulder, leaning against a column. The man watched them without saying anything. William pressed the buzzer at the towering, arched front door.
“And to think, this is only a winter home,” Follett said.
William ignored him and stared ahead grimly until the door was opened by the butler and they followed him into the cathedral-like space of the entry hall with its mural-adorned ceiling two and a half stories above. Their footsteps echoed from the marble floors and off the marble walls as the butler led them to the left. Follett glanced at the grand staircase and its double stairways rising to either side, the Ionic support columns in the center of the room topped with capitals made of bronze, and the ornately gilded coffered ceiling with plaster nymphs and cupids. If Flagler had wanted to create a royal atmosphere, he had succeeded.