Race for the Dying (23 page)

Chapter Thirty-nine

My, what a brave little girl. Bertha Auerbach reported. Thomas looked up from the desk where, without energy to do anything else at this hour, he had been recording the events of the day in his journal.

“The pain should not be great,” he said, and then had second thoughts. Bertha voiced them first. “Well, perhaps not to you,” the nurse admonished kindly. “But to a child, I suppose it feels as if large hands have been rummaging about in her insides, cutting and stitching and snipping. Most delicate and expert work. Doctor, but painful nevertheless.”

Bemused, Thomas nodded agreement. “She's resting comfortably?”

“As much as can be expected.”

“The acute pain should last only a few hours—perhaps a day or so at most. Warm pads over the area of the incision will be soothing.” He sat back, realizing with a jolt just how easy it was to slip into the physician's efficient mode, assuming that pain was something the patient must endure.

“Her mother is with her for the night,” Bertha said.

“Good. You're going home now?” Thomas stretched back. “You have an escort?”

“As it happens, Constable Eastman is outside. He will see me home safely. And you should go back to one-oh-one for some rest,” she said.

“I'll be fine, really.” He glanced toward the door and lowered his voice. “It would be convenient if Dr. Riggs would occasionally descend from his aerie. Does he ever? In an emergency, for instance?”

“No.”

“If I had not been here, and if Dr. Haines had been unable to operate on the little girl, what would have happened?”

“She would either survive the carriage ride to St. Mary's, or she would not,” Bertha replied. “Poultices might have helped.”

“Poultices?” Thomas said incredulously. “I think not. Even in a matter of life or death, Dr. Riggs would not operate?”

“Doctor Thomas,” Bertha Auerbach said, heavily emphasizing the word, “Mr. Riggs is no physician. Certainly he is no surgeon.”

“I wasn't aware that I had voiced that opinion,” Thomas said.

“You don't need to. Bandages over your face or not, poker should never be your game.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “I had best not keep Edgar waiting.”

“Thank you for all you've done.” Thomas escorted her to the front door and, when he opened it, smelled pungent cigar smoke. A huge figure emerged from the shadows.

“All is well?” Constable Eastman asked.

“It is,” Thomas replied. “Thank you.” He watched Eastman offer his left arm and Bertha hooked hers through his, the size differential comical. “Good night, then.”

Back inside, he returned to the office and spent half an hour finishing his journal entry. Finally, with eyes refusing to focus, he laid down the pen and wheeled into the ward. Thomas didn't feel confident about Howard Deaton. Once bones were shattered out of line, the natural pull of tendons and muscles made matters worse. A fracture box or a plaster cast, no matter how skillfully employed, most often produced cripples. If he was very lucky, Deaton would spend the rest of his life with a cane and an awkward limp.

The man appeared to be asleep, and Thomas passed by.

Behind the screens, Mrs. Unger was seated in a straight chair beside her daughter's bed. She looked up as Thomas approached.

“She is asleep,” she whispered.

“Good,” Thomas said. He wheeled close to the cot and reached out to touch the child's forehead. A degree or two, no more. No sign of bleeding marked the small bandage on her belly, and only slight swelling.

“Good,” he said again.

“My husband says that you were nearly killed.”

Thomas glanced across at the woman, noting the black circles under her eyes and the pale cheeks.

“It was not one of my more graceful moments,” he replied. “It is of the utmost importance to keep her quiet and relaxed for the next few days,” he said. “Is she normally a sprightly child? Active by nature?”

“Oh, a dervish,” Mrs. Unger replied with pride.

“Well, the dervish needs to be harnessed for several days to allow the incision time to heal. Tomorrow and the next day, she will be allowed a thin, easy broth only. We have no kitchen facilities yet, so if you would arrange that? When she can sit up with only modest discomfort, she may start with the softest foods, in small quantities, still with a great deal of liquids.” He saw her eyes shift as her gaze strayed past the corner of the divider, focusing toward the front of the ward. At the same time he heard footsteps.

He turned, pivoting the wheelchair in place, and saw a figure of medium build advancing down the ward. The man stayed away from the side of the ward where the two injured men rested. He wore a shapeless hat that obscured his features, along with what appeared to be a canvas coat that reached to his knees.

“Good evening, sir,” Thomas said, pushing himself away from Louella Unger's bed.

“You're that new doc.” The voice was raspy, low pitched, and carried an air of belligerence that raised the hair on the nape of Thomas' neck. The man stopped several strides from him.

Thomas continued turning his chair until he directly faced the man. “I'm Thomas Parks,” he said. “How may I be of assistance?” Thomas still could not see the man's face, but he saw the man's head jerk in reaction.

“‘How may I be of assistance?'” the man mimicked, mangling Thomas' eastern accent into that of a stage-show fop.

“You're Mr. Beautard?” Thomas guessed.

“Don't know what makes you think that,” the man said. “And no, I ain't. You got somewheres we can talk?”

“Certainly,” Thomas said. “Let's go to the office.” He partially turned toward Mrs. Unger. “Excuse me for a few moments, will you?” She remained in the chair with both hands holding her daughter's. If she knew the man, she showed no sign.

“This way.” Thomas pulled the office door shut behind them. The rich aroma of alcohol and tobacco assailed his nostrils. He wheeled over to the desk, pushed himself to his feet, and turned up the gaslight behind the desk. Settling back in the wheelchair, he regarded the man with interest. The man's coat gaped and Thomas saw that his rough shirt was soaked with blood, the dark patch extending down to his belt line and soaking his trousers halfway down his thigh.

“What—,” he started to ask.

The man cut him off with a stabbing forefinger, making no move to seat himself. “You know who I am.”

“We've never met. I'm quite certain of that.” He nodded at the man's midriff. “You're hurt.”

“That ain't none of your affair. The name's Kittrick.”

“All right. Do you want to sit down, or are you content to just stand there bleeding all over my floor?” For a moment, Thomas was sure the man was going to reach across the desk and clout him. He found himself wishing that he had taken Constable Eastman's advice about a replacement revolver of some sort. But should he have had one, before he could manage to retrieve it from his waistband or a desk drawer, this man would be across the desk, breaking him into yet smaller pieces.

“State your business, sir,” Thomas said, hoping he sounded authoritative.

“My business is simple enough,” Kittrick snapped. “That fat bastard says you're claiming it was my knife that killed the punk.”

Thomas leaned back. “Are there some names here? Who's the fat bastard?” Thomas asked, knowing the answer full well, but hoping to defuse some of the man's rage.

“Eastman,” Kittrick said. “He says you claim my knife killed the punk.”

“A knife wound did kill Charlie Grimes,” Thomas said. “Of that I'm certain.”

“‘Of that I'm certain,'” Kittrick mimicked again. “Eastman says you claim it was my knife.”

“Was it?”

“Don't matter if it was.”

“Really. Now just how could it not matter?”

Kittrick eyed him sideways, and his left hand strayed to his gut. “You're a right smart-ass for somebody so busted up,” he said.

“All I told the constable is that the knife he showed me is consistent with the blade wound in the boy's heart.”

“Well, ain't nobody can say I did it, 'cause nobody saw,” Kittrick said.

“How do you know that nobody saw? If you didn't do it, that is.”

Kittrick ignored that. “And I'm here to tell you that it weren't my blade, and even if'n it was, you ain't the one to tell nobody. You ain't going to tell nobody.”

“It's a bit late for that.” Thomas said. “Eastman already knows. And without a doubt, he's already talked with the prosecutor. Or will, if he hasn't already.”

“Don't matter now what that fat bastard thought he knew,” Kittrick said. “You go shootin' off your mouth, fancy boy, and you'll join him.”

Thomas' pulse pounded louder in his ears. “Now wait a minute. If you've hurt—”

“No, you wait a minute, fancy boy. You want to keep this fancy roof over your head, you want to keep all this, you just keep your opinions to yourself.” The man patted his hand against his belly, and his palm made a wet smacking sound. “I ought to just put an end to it right here and now,” he said. “But I know the Beautards, and I know you been looking after their little one. And that”—he leaned over the desk—“is the only reason.” This time, Thomas identified the aroma of burned gunpowder that haloed the man like cheap perfume.

Chapter Forty

Kittrick left behind a trail of muddy boot prints and a lingering potpourri of sodden wool, coppery blood, and burned powder. Thomas sat motionless, listening to the beating of his heart, so loud that he didn't hear the front door close behind the man.

In his apartment on the third floor of the building, Zachary Riggs would probably have heard nothing of the rude visitation. John Haines would be home at 101, lost in a deep alcoholic slumber. Thomas pounded a short, frustrated tattoo on the arm of his chair, then swung around and reached for his crutches.

He wheeled to the front door, pushed the chair against the wall, and rose to his feet. Maneuvering outside to the front step, he stopped and listened. The rain was only a mist now. To his left, the street curved down, into what he did not know. Where did Bertha Auerbach live? She and the constable had headed down the hill. The night before, when Bertha's brother had brought her to the clinic in the wagon, she had said her home wasn't far. What did that mean? Two blocks? A half mile? A mile?

In the distance, a dog barked, a high-pitched excited yapping that certainly wasn't Prince. Thomas cursed his helplessness and turned back inside. He could not simply sit and wait. He first wheeled to the examination room and selected the largest scalpel he could find, then rummaged through one of the drawers until he found a large cork. After working the scalpel's blade into the cork, he slipped the weapon into his pocket.

The ward was still quiet, and he wheeled quickly down the aisle.

“I must find a way to alert authorities,” he told Mrs. Unger. Her eyes were wide and frightened. “Do you know the man who was just here?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I heard that he had been arrested for the boy's murder.”

“And now, we don't know,” Thomas said. “I fear for Miss Auerbach. She was under escort by Constable Eastman, and now I fear this man and Eastman may have had a confrontation. If Nurse Auerbach was with them…I must have your help. I will stay here with your daughter, but I need you to go upstairs and fetch Zachary Riggs. He has an apartment on the third floor.” He handed her the key. “This opens the door at the top of the stairs, just around the corner from the waiting room.”

“Now?”

“Yes. This instant. I need help, and Riggs is capable. Please! Go now. I'll wait here.”

He wheeled around the bed and took up her position. “The child is resting comfortably.” he whispered. “Please go immediately. There is no time to waste.”

He watched her hurry out of the ward, voluminous skirts swishing. Thomas could follow her progress as she reached the stairway, at first hesitant, then resolute. The footsteps paused at the top as she unlocked the door, and then faded as she continued around the corner to the second flight.

In a moment, he heard distant voices but couldn't determine whether they came from outside or upstairs. The little girl remained quiet, and Thomas pushed away. Mrs. Unger reappeared, this time taking care to walk gingerly.

“He's talking with Kittrick,” she whispered, handing Thomas the key.

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. I could hear their voices. I'm sure it's him.”

“Kittrick is confronting Riggs now, you mean?”

She nodded.

“The back stairway, then,” Thomas said.

Mrs. Unger's attention was drawn to Louella, who shifted slightly in her sleep, one little hand coming up to curl under her chin.

What business did Kittrick have with Zachary Riggs? “Did you speak with Dr. Riggs?” he asked her.

“I did. I knocked on his door at the same time I became aware of the voices. He came to the door, and I told him that you needed to speak with him. I said nothing of the reason. I could not see Mr. Kittrick.”

“Stay close to your daughter, then,” Thomas said, relieved at her quick wit. He wheeled back through the ward and reached the waiting room where he stopped, hand in his pocket, feeling the corked scalpel. In a moment, he heard the purposeful footsteps on the stairway. Zachary Riggs appeared, his usual expression of bonhomie now grim.

“Thomas,” he said quickly, and glanced toward the ward. “Mrs. Unger said you—” He bent close to Thomas, and the younger man could smell the brandy on his breath. “I may have done a terrible thing.”

“Kittrick was here with threats,” Thomas blurted. “He claims a confrontation with the constable. And now you as well? Upstairs?”

“No idle claim,” Riggs said. “I feared the worst.”

“Kittrick and you?”

“Yes. And I feared for my safety and yours, Thomas. When Kittrick heard Mrs. Unger mention your name, I don't know what he assumed, but he became as a wild man.” Riggs took a deep breath. “I shot him, Thomas.”

“Shot him? What do you mean?”

“Just that.” Riggs reached into his pocket and drew out a stubby little pistol, its short over-and-under barrels revealing remarkably large bores.

“My God, man. I heard no shot. Where is he now?”

“By the back door. His body is on the stairway.”

“His body? You killed him, you mean?” Thomas had visions of the enraged Kittrick reappearing, leaking from yet another wound.

“Oh, yes. I'm sure of that.”

Thomas felt a surge of relief, followed by another rush of concern. “But Miss Auerbach,” he said quickly. “Constable Eastman came earlier to escort Miss Auerbach home. They left a short time ago, not long before Kittrick arrived. I fear for her safety. Kittrick said that he and Eastman came to account—whatever that means. If Bertha was with him at that time…”

“Bertha was to return here tonight?” Riggs asked.

“No. Not until six. I don't know what he intended,” Thomas said. “He seemed a desperate sort, and was badly wounded somehow. He threatened me if I should testify against him in the Grimes matter. Obviously he was desperate, to threaten you as well.”

“My word.”

“Zachary, I am concerned about Miss Auerbach. If Kittrick set upon Eastman as the constable and Miss Auerbach were walking to her home, anything could have happened. We haven't heard from her. She might be lying injured or worse this very moment.”

“I thought her brother drove her,” Riggs said.

“Well, not this time,” Thomas said impatiently. “Nurse Auerbach enjoys the constable's company, it would seem.”

“Kittrick had nothing more to say to you?” Riggs asked. “Only the threat against you, and that somehow he had gotten the best of Eastman?”

“Only that. He said the reason I haven't met my maker is because of my patients. He claims to know the Beautards…and their child.”

“Of course he knows them,” Riggs said, “but I have heard no commotion outside.”

“Nor I. Still, he was here. His threats were very real.”

Riggs looked toward the front door, one hand holding his chin. The color had returned to his face, and he appeared his usual calm self again. Thomas scrutinized him intently. “You're unhurt?”

Riggs waved a dismissive hand. “I was fortunate,” he replied.

“I don't know where Miss Auerbach lives.”

“On Chauncey, I believe. No more than a half mile.”

“Then we must go there.”

Riggs frowned with exasperation. “You can't go anywhere,” he said. “Let me see what's what. I'll fetch the deputy constable. We can't leave a bleeding corpse on the back stairs. I'll find Aldrich, so not to worry.”

Riggs buttoned his coat, opened the front door, and stepped out into the night.

As Thomas waited, the minute hand of the clock appeared brazed in place. He wheeled back to the ward, looking through the shadows at the silent occupants, then turned and went back to open the front door, trying to see through the wet darkness. The minute hand clicked so loudly that it startled him.

How could a village be this quiet? Was it possible for a couple to be accosted on the street, and no one notice? Of course it was. Riggs had just dispatched Kittrick on the back stairway of the clinic, and Thomas had heard nothing—no gunshot, no cry, no thud of a body. He thought of half a dozen scenarios, and all of them made him nauseous. There was nothing he could do about any of them. He would have to depend on Zachary Riggs.